


Oh, Shit

by bubblebucky



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Crossover!, Heavy Drinking, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Trevor Belmont in Thedas, as the story progresses ;), so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-10-04 21:50:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17312465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebucky/pseuds/bubblebucky
Summary: The last thing he saw as he fell backwards into the rip that had opened up in the air was Sypha and Alucard's faces, wide-eyed as they opened their mouths to call out. Already, he was dreading the scolding he'd be sure to receive when he saw them next.Then, he hit the ground, and the glowing tear that Trevor fell through snapped shut."Oh, shit."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guess who watched all of Castlevania on netflix in one sitting, babey

The last thing he saw as he fell backwards into the rip that had opened up in the air was Sypha and Alucard's faces, wide-eyed as they opened their mouths to call out. Already he was dreading the scolding he'd be sure to receive when he saw them next.

That thought, however, vanished from his mind as he hit the ground with a _thump_ that knocked the wind out of him to find that he was in a room he did not recognize, full of people he did not recognize, in the middle of doing shit he did not like the looks of as they all froze to stare at him. Then, the glowing tear that Trevor fell through snapped shut.

"Oh, shit."

It was not long before Trevor decided that his initial assessment of the situation was not quite accurate. _Oh, fuck_ would have been a more appropriate descriptor, he decided, as they took his weapons and bound him in chains. That upgraded to _fucking hell_ as he caught glimpses of a guy with horns and a landscape that he didn't even vaguely recognize, along with a bunch of people who asked questions that didn't make any sense.

It quickly evolved into _why the fuck does this bullshit always happen to me?_ as he was locked in some dungeon beneath a church—which, to be fair, he did try to explain was a bad idea, his excommunication still very much active, but the person who'd been leading him in, a really buff, rather rude woman named Cassandra whose demeanor was not improved by the sword she had strapped to her hip, just made a noise in the back of her throat and shoved him forwards.

Well, alright. If the church caught fire, it wasn't his fault.

Several hours later, however, he was still chained to a wall in the dungeon, the church had not caught fire—which was as much a relief as it was a disappointment—and three women were entering his cell.

He recognized them all from previous questioning—and because one of them was Cassandra, that pushy bitch. The red-haired one, Leliana, had interrogated Trevor earlier, and that experience was enough to tell him that, if he were not Trevor-fucking-Belmont, killer of vampires and other evil shit, he would be absolutely terrified of her. The last one was the Herald, as everyone referred to her, a young woman with warm brown skin and a thick mane of black curls. She was important somehow. Definitely a noble, though he doubted that was why. It probably had to do with the glowing hand situation she had going on.

In her French—but not, apparently, since she'd seemed legitimately confused when he'd suggested it—accent, Leliana was the first to speak. "I have asked my contacts. I have asked my contacts' contacts. Nowhere have I heard of the House Belmont, nor this Wallachia you speak of. Tell me—why would you attempt such an obvious lie?"

Trevor shifted, trying to get comfortable with his arms chained to the wall behind his back, but gave up after a moment and let himself slump back down with a grunt. "I'm not lying."

"No?" Leliana's eyes were sharp as she surveyed him, ice lining every inch of her face. "You've told me a fake name, from a fake country, in a fake land. None of those places exist anywhere in Thedas."

"I suggest that you get a better map—wait. Thedas?"

Which is how, after the longest, most frustrating, most confusing conversation of his life—which was saying something, since he travelled with both Sypha and Alucard, neither of whom are particularly good at being forthcoming or, uh, simple in their explanations—his situation quickly went back to _oh, shit_ , as all other rational thought fled his mind in the face of the fact that he was not in Wallachia. Or Europe. Or the planet Earth, for that matter.

Instead, he was in a land called Thedas, which does not have vampires, but does have demons, magic, dark hordes, and a corrupt church—though that admission came from the Herald and not the other two, who visibly bristled at the statement. This land also apparently had elves and dwarves and Qunari— _what_ —and a big green hole in the fucking sky to match the one on the Herald's hand.

So, that's why she's important.

"It has unbalanced the land in many ways," the Herald told him, as he sat mute and the other two women glared at him distrustfully, "Opening rifts to the Fade, bringing demons forth, and changing the rules of magic entirely, really. It's likely that Alexius was able to open the portal that brought you here due, in part, to the Breach's disruption of—well, everything."

"Herald, you can't really believe what he claims," Cassandra cut in. "It's ridiculous. Impossible. He's clearly a spy sent to gather information about the Inquisition."

"Who fell out of an unstable portal?" the Herald asked Cassandra. "You saw that thing, same as I did. There's no way that could have been planned."

Cassandra clenched her jaw but remained silent. Leliana was the one who replied, "Perhaps, but the fact remains that we do not know this man, we do not know his intentions, and we cannot afford anymore unknown enemies."

"You're right, we don't," the Herald said, though she didn't sound like she was really agreeing at all, "But it seems to me like we'd only be giving him a good reason to be our enemy if we keep him locked away without him having done anything wrong but fall out of a hole in the sky." She paused then said, "And doesn't _that_ sound like a rather familiar situation?"

There was a moment of silence where the significance of what the Herald said sunk in—which, Trevor would like to point out, was absolutely lost on him—and then Cassandra was heaving out a sigh, shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of her.

"What do you suggest, then? We let him go to roam Thedas freely?"

The Herald smiled, an easy, kind-looking thing, and turned to face Trevor. "You said your name was Trevor, correct? You look like you've seen a fight or two. How would you like to join the Inquisition?"

 _Shit_ , Trevor thought as he was handed back his shortsword, knives, and the Morning Star and led to meet his new comrades by the Herald. _Sypha and Alucard are going to kill me for this one._


	2. Chapter 2

First stop was the tavern, which Trevor agreed was a very wise idea.

He thought it was less wise when the Herald led him away from the bar and towards the group of tables packed full of people who were drinking and laughing and altogether being very loud, but—well, Trevor was fairly sure Leliana had a few people with knives following them already, so he wasn't going to protest yet. Sypha would be very proud of his critical thinking skills.

"Hey, Boss," someone called from the mass, and—shit, it was the Qunari guy.

Trevor thought he was big (and vaguely reminiscent of one of the creatures from the dark horde, but he kept that to himself) the first time he saw him from a distance on the uncomfortable trip back here from wherever he fell out of the portal, but as the man stood up from his chair—and up, and up—Trevor realized that he absolutely towered over him. Not only that, but his biceps were approximately the same size as Trevor's head, he was covered in vicious-looking scars, and he was giving Trevor a once over with his single eye that was one part friendly observation and two parts breaking him down for weaknesses.

Unnerving as that was, Trevor met his gaze head-on with the most bored look he could manage as the big guy continued, "You finally set our visitor free, huh?"

"You mean the other guy who fell out of a rift?" New voice, this one coming from what had to be a dwarf man leaning back in his chair to look around the Qunari's bulk. He waved off the comment of _portal, actually_ that the Herald offered and said, "Damn, and I thought the Seeker would keep him locked up for sure. Guess I owe you money, Tiny."

Tiny—yeah, that's got to be an ironic nickname—sent the dwarf a grin then reached out to clap a hand on Trevor's shoulder that he very pointedly did not tense under. "I'm the Iron Bull," That was much more appropriate, "Why don't you and the Boss sit down? Drinks are on Varric."

Finally. Amidst some good-natured groaning from the dwarf named Varric, Trevor and the Herald squeezed two more chairs around the rather full table—though, to be fair, at least half of it was taken up by the Iron Bull—and sat down to have two mugs of ale dropped in front of them. Trevor gave the serving girl a nod and scooped it up, immediately taking a few gulps as he tried to ignore the scrutiny of his entire table and a few of the adjacent ones. It wasn't particularly good, but it certainly wasn't the worst thing he'd ever drunk.

"Well," came the Herald's voice, rounded and bright, "this is Trevor Belmont. He's from, um…"

"Wallachia," Trevor said between drinks.

"Yes, Wallachia. Which is…"

"Not here."

"That's true," the Herald said, smile faltering, but it returned full-force as she turned to the rest of the table, gesturing at each person as she said, "Trevor, this is Varric Tethras, the Iron Bull, who's already introduced himself, and Krem."

"A pleasure," he said, eying each man in turn.

The Herald didn't seem to know what to do with that, and she spent a few moments clearly struggling to find something else to say. He would feel worse if she hadn't locked him up for several days—even if she was the one who got him set free—and if he weren't in a whole different world. As it were, he was a lot more interested in getting drunk than he was in keeping her comfortable.

Of course, others didn't feel the same way, apparently.

"So, Trevor Belmont, how did you end up here?" Varric asked, breaking the silence. He had a clever-looking face, with intelligent eyes and a smirk that hinted at trouble. Trevor got the feeling that he'd either like him or hate this guy's guts.

He took another gulp of his ale. "A portal, apparently."

"Yeah, I was there for that part. Didn't look like a whole lot of fun," the Iron Bull said, a hint of a grimace on his face.

"It wasn't so bad. Nothing's tried to eat me, so." Trevor shrugged. Honestly, this may be the longest he'd gone without fighting something in a while.

"Does that happen to you a lot?" Krem asked, sounding unsettled.

"Portals? Not really. Almost getting eaten?" Another swallow of ale. "Yeah."

"Seems like you're in a rough business," Varric said, guiding the conversation with an ease that was frankly impressive. "Dragon hunter?"

There'd been a few dragons, though that didn't make the top five on the list of things that had tried to eat him recently. Alucard and Sypha would be numbers one and two. "Amongst other things."

"It sounds like you've got some stories." Varric's face had taken on an eager edge that immediately had Trevor stiffening.

Yes, he had some stories. Few of them ended well, though, and even fewer he liked to think about—much less talk about. It took effort to relax his shoulders and keep his jaw from clenching, to stop his knuckles from tightening around his mug of ale as he took a long pull from it.

He set it back on the table maybe a little too hard and said, "Yeah."

A heartbeat passed. Then, Varric was leaning back, smiling in rueful good humor, saying, "Alright, alright. I can take a hint. You've probably had a rough time of it the last few days, huh? I can say from experience that the Seeker's brand of hospitality is none-too-enjoyable."

"You mean Cassandra?" Trevor asked, and Varric laughed.

"Who else?"

"Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth," the Herald put in helpfully. "They work for the Chantry to keep the templars and mages in line."

That explained—well, pretty much everything about her personality. "Ah."

"What, not a fan?" the Iron Bull asked, raising his eyebrow.

Trevor shrugged. He wasn't about to get into that topic of debate, especially since he was getting the feeling that the people in this world were nearly as fucking crazy about their church as the people in his. Hopefully, Cassandra forgot about how he was excommunicated back on Earth; he really didn't need that following him here.

If it could. He wasn't really sure how that sort of thing translated between dimensions. Christianity seemed pretty close to whatever they had going on in this world, but Trevor wasn't going to poke that with a stick of any length. No, he was going to wait around for Sypha and Alucard to come and yank him back to Earth—it's not like he was any good at that sort of thing—and he was going to get as drunk as he possibly could while he did so.

Plan made, he went for another drink of his ale, but it was empty. Damn, and he didn't even have a buzz yet. "You got any more?"

The Herald shoved her own mug towards him—not much of a drinker, apparently—and he lifted it in thanks before taking a gulp.

It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please feel free to feed the author. she thrives on comments and animal crackers


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha we on a roll, kids
> 
> also: angst
> 
> don't worry things will start happening soon i swear i swear

He met other people, too, over the next few days.

There was an elf woman named Sera who took one look at him, squawked something unintelligible, and disappeared—"Don't worry, she'll warm up to you," the Herald told him with a pat, even though Trevor wasn't particularly worried—and the bear of a man who'd been drinking with her, who introduced himself as Blackwall and then quickly shut up.

Cassandra had been vaguely apologetic, but that might have been because the Herald had been staring at her over Trevor's shoulder. Cullen seemed very proper and down-to-business, and he was giving the Herald some glances that weren't even a little subtle. He didn't seem to trust Trevor very much, either, but that was understandable. Trevor would be pretty fucking wary of anyone who got zapped into his world carrying various weapons and no explanation, too.

Madame Vivienne de Fer—and what a name that was—took one look at him and scoffed, which might have been more insulting if he weren't used to it. Actually, he rather liked her; the responses he got when he prodded her were quite like the ones he got for the first few weeks of knowing Alucard. Very sharp. Very reactive.

Josephine Montilyet he was not as fond of, but mostly because he felt guilty just standing in her office. It was very clean, and he, as a rule, was not. That was fine when the people he was imposing himself upon were either complete assholes or enough of one to thoroughly insult him—but Josephine was neither, and she offered him a chance for a private bath so politely that he was agreeing before he really thought it through. Also because Leliana was in the corner, presiding over that whole conversation like a murderous red-haired gargoyle, and she looked willing to stab him if he denied Josephine anything.

Damn. Sypha and Alucard better not find out about that, or else they'll start guilting and threatening him into taking baths every day. It was much more fun when they got fed up with his general stench and manhandled him into the tub.

So: bathing break, but when he emerged smelling acceptable and wearing clothes that were a bit damp from the wash, the Herald was waiting on him with a smile. She was very smiley, that one.

She took him to meet Dorian, who was sitting on a boulder reading a book, and who was probably the most attractive person he'd seen so far—not that they all weren't just fine, but, well. Trevor tried not to let himself be glad that he bathed.

The resulting conversation had Trevor being slyly insulted nearly as much as when he was with Vivienne—though the barbs were quite a bit less venomous. Trevor liked to think he returned as good as he got, though, and ended it by flipping the guy off behind the Herald's back as they walked away.

Then, Solas.

It began fairly well.

"Solas," the Herald said, grinning as she presented Trevor to the bald elf, "This is Trevor Belmont."

It quickly went downhill from there.

"Ah, yes, the one who came through the portal," he eyed Trevor with interest, head tilting to the side. "How are you coping with the loss of your world?"

It took a second for Trevor to really process that question. Then another to understand what Solas was implying. And another still for his face to twist into a scowl and his fists to clench as something hot and chaotic rushed through him.

"I didn't fucking lose anything," Trevor growled, "but you better shut your mouth before you lose something important."

A small squeak of protest came somewhere from Trevor's right—the Herald, presumably—but he ignored it in favor of keeping his eyes trained on Solas as the interest drained from his gaze and cold contempt took its place.

"Ah, charming. I see that humans," that word he spit with no small amount of disdain, "are the same from one world to the next."

"And clearly there are pretentious cockwarts like you everywhere," Trevor shot back, blood burning beneath his skin.

"I—look, let's start over—" the Herald tried, hands half-raised, her eyes darting between them, but Solas interrupted her.

"No, I believe that I have heard quite enough." Folding his hands behind his back, he nodded shortly to the Herald and then pinned Trevor with a look that made it seem that he were looking firmly down upon him despite them being the same height. "I hope you return to your home soon, Trevor Belmont."

"Yeah, fuck you, too," was Trevor's clever finish, and he spun on his heel to stalk back down the path.

He heard the sounds of the Herald excusing herself from that asshole only vaguely over the pounding of his heart in his ears. His chest was heaving like he'd been fighting, and his hand was twitching for the Morning Star, but he kept walking forwards even as the Herald scurried to keep up with him.

"Trevor," he heard her saying, muffled though her voice was, "We'll figure something out—"

"I'm getting a drink," he said, and he sped up to leave her behind as he went to do just that.

The tavern was as crowded as it usually was. There were a few people that Trevor recognized—Sera and Blackwall were snorting over in a corner—but he ignored them all, and they paid him the same courtesy as he went straight to the bar and called to Flissa, "Can I get an ale?"

One ale turned into two, which turned into three, which turned into several more until Trevor lost count. He sat alone as he drank, only speaking to Flissa to request another round. And in his mind, the words repeating:

_How are you coping with the loss of your world?_

Solas didn't know anything. He didn't know Alucard, and he didn't know Sypha, and he sure as hell didn't know Trevor, no matter how worldly he liked to pretend to be. Sypha had dragged Dracula's fucking castle across Wallachia; dragging his ass back to her side was nothing.

Of course, a small voice that he was desperately trying to drown out with his current mug of ale, Dracula's castle hadn't been in another world.

_How are you coping with the loss of your world?_

They would find him. He knew they would. And they would do some fucking magic, and he'd be back home again listening to them shout about how reckless and stupid he was—even if this one definitely was not his fault.

_How are you coping with the loss of your world?_

Trevor tossed back the last of his ale and pushed off his stool, throwing a half-wave at Flissa as he stumbled out the door. Cold air met his alcohol-warm face, and he shuddered before reaching back to pull his cloak tighter around him—but it wasn't there. That's right, he remembered. It was back on Earth.

So he trudged forwards to the tent the Herald had set him up in. It was next to a fire, and he was grateful for the small amount of heat that seeped into his tent as he himself crawled inside, movements jerky and blunted, face burning. His eyes stung from the cold, and he squeezed them shut as soon as he collapsed on his bedroll, not bothering to undress.

_How are you coping with the loss of your world?_

Fucking fine, thank you very much, because this time it wasn't lost forever. It wasn't like last time, when he was twelve years old and too weak to do anything but cry as they came and burnt his family to ash. It wasn't like last time, because this time he wasn't alone. This time he had people looking for him.

It wasn't lost forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also thank u to everyone who is commenting! i am filled with unholy energy that stokes the fires of my writing engine


	4. Chapter 4

He woke up to a pounding headache and the Herald's face staring down at him.

For a moment, his heart stuttered in his chest as he thought—but, no. He didn't get that drunk. And his clothes are still on. Hers, too, for that matter.

Besides, the people he did the deed with usually woke up in a rather good mood, and the expression on the Herald's face, a pensive, worried thing, was not that.

Trevor grunted, throwing an arm over his face. "What do you want?"

The Herald didn't reply right away. She shifted where she was crouched beside him—probably uncomfortably, since the tent wasn't all that large, and Trevor wasn't all that small—then, in a voice much more reserved than he was used to hearing from her, "I'm going up to close the Breach today."

That wasn't really an answer to Trevor's question, but he decided against pointing that out because, to be fair, what she did say was pretty big. Even if it didn't really have anything to do with him.

"Have fun," he said, not so much expecting as hoping that she'd leave.

She did not.

Instead, she let out a small sigh, and she said, "If—When I get back, we will talk about getting you home."

Trevor's jaw clenched. He forced it to relax. Then, he heaved in a breath and rolled over—a bit haphazardly, since there was no space in the fucking tent—sitting up with a groan and dragging a hand down his face.

"You really don't have to do that. My friends back home, they'll be figuring it out soon."

Now that he was sitting up, he could see the frown the Herald was aiming at him. He leveled a bored look back.

"I understand," she began, ignoring his look, "but—it can't hurt to research here as well, can it? We have some people who are very skilled in theoretical magic."

Trevor blinked. "Er, I don't know anything about that, but Sypha is—well, she's—the best, kind of."

The Herald's mouth twitched upwards. "We can talk about it more later. I just didn't want you to think I forgot."

Not knowing what to say, Trevor just gave her a slow nod. "Right, then."

"Right." The Herald's eyes, a warm, speckled hazel, locked with his and stayed like that for a few moments. Then, her cheeks darkened, and she coughed, looking away. "I've got to go. Breach, and stuff."

She crawled back out of the tent, but before she could close the flap again, Trevor called out, "Good luck, er, Herald."

She paused. "My name is Evelyn."

He probably should have known that after a week of being there. Oh, well.

"Good luck, Evelyn."

Evelyn's face softened, and she gave him a smile that seemed more genuine than any of the bright grins she'd flashed him or the others before. "Thank you, Trevor."

Then the flap closed, and she was gone.

Trevor heaved out a sigh. He rubbed at the headache pounding in his temples. He tried not to imagine Sypha and Alucard chewing him out for drinking again. Exhaustion pounded at the back of his eyes, despite him having just woken up.

So, without anyone needing him, without any monsters to fight, he laid back down, closing his eyes and doing his best to ignore the clamor of people rushing around outside. And eventually, he drifted asleep once more.

That, of course, only lasted as long as it took for a loud crack to rip him from unconsciousness, so loud he could feel it in his bones.

Trevor shot upwards.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted, patting to make sure his weapons were all still on him as he unceremoniously toppled out of the tent, hitting the ground for only a moment before he was back on his feet, whirling around to see what the hell just happened.

Then, the roar of cheering reached his ears, along with people laughing and crying and shouting, "The Breach! She did it!" and Trevor turned his face up to the sky.

Where before there'd been an awful hole in the sky, green and flashy and really just looking like very bad news, now there was nothing but a faint jagged line in the blue, like a scar from a wound that just closed up. The conversation he'd had with the Herald—no, wait, Evelyn—that morning finally re-registered in his mind, and it all clicked: she'd done it. She closed the Breach.

That was good. Very good, if the rabid celebrating already happening around him was anything to go by. Evelyn had managed to—fuck, she probably saved the whole world.

And not just her own. Other ones, too. That thing fucked up the universe so bad that Trevor got pulled to an entirely different world. Now, it was closed, and it wouldn't be messing with anyone else. No one else would be getting accidentally shoved from one world to another.

With no impending battle, the tension in Trevor's shoulders drained away. He looked around at the faces of the people she saved, all of them celebrating, all of them ecstatic, and after a moment, he moved with them to await their savior, climbing up onto the ramparts to watch for her coming.

A few hours later, he spotted her. Evelyn came riding back around the tree-lined path with a tired but wide smile, her round cheeks flushed. As more and more people began to notice her return, the cheers that had been simmering since the close of the Breach returned full-force, and it was a roar that Trevor could feel in his chest by the time Evelyn and her party dismounted in front of Haven. She accepted the thanks and congratulations that everyone—and Trevor means _everyone_ —was throwing at her with polite nods and short hums that were lost in all the mayhem.

Trevor watched from the ramparts as this went on for hours, arms crossed against his chest. He watched long beyond the time that Evelyn moved past the walls of Haven, retreating behind him and out of view presumably to take part in the celebrating. And then he was left watching the land and the mountains beyond, the reveling a wall of noise at his back.

He was—grateful, he supposed, and it was an odd feeling. Not that he hadn't been grateful before; Sypha and Alucard had both done so much for him that he feared he'd never be able to repay them in full. But this was the first time he wasn't the one doing the saving. This was the first time he didn't have to be the hero.

It was a strange thing to be watching a hero march home, and stranger still to see her being thanked for it.

"You going to stand up there all day, hunter?"

Trevor was pulled from his contemplations by a voice cutting through all the noise. He glanced over and down to see Varric watching him with raised eyebrows on the stairs of the ramparts, smirking in a way that was both friendly and sharp.

"I may sit eventually."

Varric hummed as he reached the top, sauntering closer. "What's got you so distracted?"

Trevor gestured vaguely towards the landscape beyond them. "Ah, you know. Nature, mountains. Trees."

Varric glanced to where he gestured. "It's nice enough, but I can't help but get the feeling that you haven't been brooding up here for the last few hours for the view."

"It's a nice view," Trevor huffed, arms tightening. Then, he sighed. "People back home don't usually—" He stopped, sighed again. "It's nice to see a happy ending."

"I mean, there's the Elder One to deal with. And the Venatori," Varric said, which wasn't really helpful. He seemed to realize that, though, because he then continued more optimistically, "But this was a good victory, which is why you should be celebrating with everyone else."

Trevor waved Varric off, turning back to look towards the jagged line that the mountains cut across the horizon. "Yes, yes. I'll be there soon."

"Come on, hunter. The sun's gone down, and it'll be getting cold—well, colder. Why don't you come with—"

"Wait." There was something there, coming over the mountains. Little orange dots of fire, a dark bulk—a sea of armored men cresting the break in the mountain range where Haven was seated. Trevor grabbed Varric's shoulder and pointed. "Do you know them?"

Just as panic started to dawn on Varric's face, bells began to ring. Down the line of the ramparts, actual soldiers were startling in their posts, just now seeing the threat that was spilling into the valley. Trevor and Varric shared a tense look, and then they rushed down from their post, returning back to the ground where already chaos was taking hold.

People ran through Haven without direction, shouting and panicking and tripping over each other. It was havoc as soldiers stumbled to get back into their armor, drunk from celebrating, and civilians rushed around in confusion.

It reminded Trevor no small amount of Gresit as Dracula's horde bore down upon them, everyone too terrified out of their minds to help themselves. It was a dark contrast from the joy that permeated the village minutes before.

He and Varric arrived at the gates around the same time as Evelyn and the rest of her people did, but Trevor didn't get a chance to say a word before she was demanding to know what was happening.

Grim-faced, Cullen told them, "There's a massive force, the bulk over the mountains."

Josephine, still red-cheeked from the party that had been so suddenly interrupted, asked the question Trevor was wondering—"Under what banner?"

Cullen shook his head. "None."

Trevor was glad that, for once, he chose not to drink. He had to give Alucard some credit—the whole brooding alone in a secluded area thing had its benefits. Such as the fact that now, as an unknown army advanced towards them, Trevor was perfectly, lethally sober.

The downside of not drinking heavily before the army advanced was that now he was perfectly, lethally sober, and he still had to deal with the pale kid—yeah, okay, fine; he'd seen weirder shit than that—announcing that the Elder One was pissed at Evelyn for stealing his mages and had recruited the Templars to attack. Also, something with red lyrium, which sounded delightfully ominous.

God just couldn't stop shitting in Trevor's dinner, could he?

"Give them everything you've got," Cullen told them before running off to rally the Inquisition's scattered troops, and Trevor rolled his shoulders.

He may not have been able to do magic. He may not have been able to find a way home. But, fuck—he could do this.

The first of the Red Templars came into sight as they barreled through the tree line, and the Morning Star hummed at Trevor's waist.

"Alright," he breathed, taking the chain in hand and feeling its aura rush through his veins like fire, "Let's fucking see how this world handles Belmonts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for comments!! i love them


	5. Chapter 5

There was nothing quite like a battle, was there? The whistle of the Morning Star cutting through the air, the pull of his muscles as he guided his weapons, the _pant-step-pant-step_ pattern he fell into after a few minutes—nothing could compare.

It's not that he liked it. He knew as well as anybody—better than most, even—that violence was always bloody and terrible, and there was little glory to be found in the loss of life.

But it felt right. More than any other time, this is when he felt like he was living up to his destiny. His Belmont blood humming in his veins as he fought the forces of evil in protection of the good. The Morning Star glowing as it beat back corruption. His blades singing as they clashed against darkness.

Trevor whipped the Morning Star's chain forwards, the bladed weight at the end of it rushing through the air to sink into the chest of a Red Templar. They were easier to fight than the demons back home—smaller, weaker, and whatever the red shit growing out of them was, it didn't like his blessed weapons very much, and he found they reacted rather similarly to them as demons did—with less exploding, but more falling to the ground and dissolving. Equally satisfying in the long run.

With a firm tug, the Morning Star came free of the Templar's chest, which began to blacken and crumble as the Templar let out a guttural, bestial shout that quickly fell away. Trevor didn't stop to watch, though, just swung the chain around his arm to snap it towards a Templar looming over some Inquisition soldier, catching an arm right as it was about to bring down the sword on the soldier's head, yanking it away. The Red Templar stumbled, and Trevor took advantage of its misbalance as he abruptly pulled the chain in a different direction, sending the Red Templar to its knees only to be quickly put down as the heavy star bludgeoned into its head, orange glow flaring as its blessing made it crumble.

The enemies never seemed to end. Even if the Red Templars were easier to kill, there were so many of them that every time Trevor took one down, two more were there to take its place. Still, he fought on.

The Morning Star's chain wrapped around another Red Templar's throat, and Trevor used it to drag it towards him. Then, bracing one foot on the warrior's metal clad chest, he pulled, the blessed chain of his weapon sizzling against the Red Templar's tainted skin until it cut straight through with a spray of gore that hit Trevor across the face.

"Hey, Belmont!"

Trevor spun around to see a Red Templar approaching, only to suddenly be ripped away by a huge ax cleaving through it. The Iron Bull's huge chest heaved as he drew to a stop and gave Trevor an appraising look—or maybe just the Morning Star.

"Don't get that shit in your mouth," the Iron Bull grunted out after a moment, releasing his somewhat unreasonably sized ax with one hand to gesture at Trevor's face. "Or any other holes."

Trevor grimaced as he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve. "Gross."

"Uh-huh. C'mon—we're watching the Boss' back while she takes care of some shit."

Annoyingly vague, but they didn't have much time for details. Trevor secured the Morning Star on his belt—it wasn't the best weapon to use with allies in close proximity—and drew his shortsword with a huff of acknowledgement, jogging after the Iron Bull, who cleared the way with wide swings of his ax that sent Red Templars flying.

They met up with a breathless Evelyn—and Cassandra and Solas, ugh—beside a trebuchet, which Evelyn very quickly focused on.

Trevor, on the other hand, turned his attention to the Red Templars stalking towards them and readied his shortsword, which gleamed silver in the low light. Then, the fight began anew.

With a wordless shout, two Red Templars barreled towards him, one of them swinging a sword down in a wide arc that Trevor easily stepped to the side to avoid before shoving his own sword in the joint where its breastplate met its shoulder, sinking in only as deep as was needed for the Templar to stop moving before withdrawing his blade with a slick noise.

Without missing a beat, he elbowed the other Templar in the head—fuck, that helmet was hard, that's going be a nasty bruise later—making it stumble, and with two quick slashes opened a gash in its stomach and slit its throat.

Trevor rolled as another Templar's blade flashed towards him, hearing it whistle through the air too close for comfort, and swiped a leg beneath the thing's own, knocking it down. He was on his feet and shoving a sword through its exposed neck with a grunt moments later.

A shout—and not the strangled, inhuman sound that the Red Templars made with their twisted vocal cords—came from his left, and Trevor looked up to see Solas stumble back as a Templar got within swinging distance. The thing lifted a sword, ready to strike, but Trevor had already thrown his. It shot through the air and caught the Templar in the chest, armor preventing it from going too deep. Still, it was pushed back, buying Solas time to blast it with—oh, damn, he was a mage. That explained the stick he was carrying around.

Trevor tried not to—no, wait. That's not true. Trevor was very smug as he trotted over to retrieve the sword sticking out of the smoldering Templar's chest, putting a boot to its breastplate for leverage as he yanked it out. Solas' face, though, was infuriatingly blank as he watched only for a moment before turning back to wave his stick at Cassandra, who was then encased in a faint blue light that stopped the fist of the monstrously large Red Templar in its tracks.

Whatever. Sypha could do better.

A few more minutes of fighting—he'd taken on the job of defending Solas while he made people glow and explode, because apparently his magic made him a prime target for the Red Templars—and then there was a loud click and a huge whoosh of air as Evelyn set off the trebuchet. Trevor stabbed the last of his Red Templars and turned to watch.

At first, he thought she'd missed. The boulder that it launched was definitely not going towards the endless stream of Templars marching their way, or even the weird crystal-studded guy who was watching all this from the top of a ledge across the frozen lake. Within a moment, though, Trevor realized what she'd done, and seconds later the boulder crashed into the side of one of the mountains flanking the valley's entrance.

Immediately, the snow that must have been piling up on it for decades began to slide down, slowly at first but then faster as a white wave started to swallow up the troops as it rushed through the valley. It was too far to make it all the way to Haven's doorstep, but the Templars that remained drew back at the sight of the majority of their glorious army buried in snow.

Evelyn hopped off the trebuchet's platform with a pleased smile, pushing her wild hair back from her face as relieved cheering tentatively began to sound. The Iron Bull released a booming laugh and clapped Evelyn hard enough on the back to make her stumble. Solas stowed his staff in the holster on his back, a small smile—the first Trevor had seen from him—gracing his face, and Cassandra was beginning a monologue about bravery and strategy and the grace of their God, or something.

Trevor felt the tightness in his own chest begin to loosen. Another moment passed, Evelyn smacked the Iron Bull on the arm, and Trevor finally began to move to put his sword away.

Then, God decided to piss in Trevor's ale again.

With half a curse, Trevor reached out and pulled Evelyn to him, spinning to put himself between her and the attack just as the fireball hit the trebuchet.

The impact sent them staggering forward, and a piece of flaming wood slammed into Trevor's back, earning itself a grunt. He then released Evelyn and spun around to see a dragon circle around the valley and let out an awful roar.

"Shit," Trevor said under his breath, and Solas, who'd been just close enough to hear, let out a morbid chuckle.

"Indeed."

"Fall back!" Evelyn's voice interrupted whatever short moment of agreement that Trevor and Solas were sharing—impossible life-and-death circumstances caused shit like that, he'd found—and immediately, they were on the move, running back towards Haven's gates like—well, kind of like there was a dragon on their tail.

Trevor was glad he hadn't quite gotten to putting his sword away, because apparently the dragon gave the remaining Red Templars the confidence boost they needed to resume their attack. As the five of them ran—five quickly becoming more as they were joined by other soldiers dashing back to the relative safety that lay behind Haven's walls—he had to pause several times to slash at a Templar that got too close to their group. Cassandra and the Iron Bull did the same, while Solas occasionally set more barriers around them and lit people on fire, if given the chance. At one point, an arrow sprouted out of the neck of a Templar who'd grabbed Trevor by the shirt, and he turned to see Evelyn with a bow in her hand, waving them all inside the gates.

As the last of them scrambled inside, the gates closed with a heavy thump, and there was a moment where they all just looked at each other and panted.

Then, the dragon roared again, and Evelyn straightened up. "Everyone, back to the Chantry! It's the only building that may hold against that thing."

The next few minutes were a blur. The Chantry sat at the far end of the village on the top of the hill, but Haven was so small that shouldn't have been a problem. Crossing that short distance got a little more complicated when there was a dragon launching fireballs at everything that moved—plus, a distressing amount of shit that didn't move—Red Templars were literally knocking down the walls to get at them, and they had to rescue random people who couldn't follow the simple instructions of _don't die_.

But they made it, eventually. By the time they did, though, Trevor was feeling a lot less smug for saving Solas earlier since the guy had saved his ass a few times with his glowy barriers on the mad dash. To be fair, Trevor rescued him some more, too, but the whole battle was turning into such a disaster that anything vaguely resembling a positive emotion was being thrown right out of Trevor's vocabulary.

"Fucking churches," Trevor growled once the Chantry came into view, even if he was a bit relieved to see it. The dragon screeched behind them again, something exploded, and Trevor practically threw the man he'd pulled out of a burning building through the open doors. It was a testament for how far into shit things had gone that Trevor only hesitated a moment before stepping into the Chantry himself and helping Cullen slam the doors closed behind him.

Then, Trevor slumped against the wall and tried to catch his breath, pulling air into his burning lungs as he tilted his head back. A quick survey of the room showed that everyone he knew by name had survived—even Flissa, who hadn't looked so good when they pulled her out of the rubble of the tavern, was now only a bit worse for wear as she blinked up at the random mage currently waving glowy hands at her.

"You good, hunter?"

Ah, Varric. Trevor offered him a thumbs-up, heavy breathing starting to get back to normal, and gasped out, "Never better."

Varric laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Trevor straightened up, huffing at him, but before either could say anything more, Cullen came to a stop before Evelyn and began to speak.

"Herald, our position is not good," he began, because Evelyn clearly was not aware of this, "That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us."

To make things better, the strange pale boy that Trevor had caught a glimpse of earlier spoke up from where he was kneeling next to a dying priest. "I've seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that."

Apparently, the word _Archdemon_ means something as threatening as it sounds, because the noise in the room suddenly fell down a few levels. Evelyn's face was unusually blanched, even as Cullen snapped at the kid that the details didn't really matter.

"Either way, it destroyed Haven," he finished.

"He doesn't care about the village," the kid replied, then turned his big, unblinking eyes onto Evelyn. "He just wants the Herald."

Everyone else's eyes followed, and Trevor watched as Evelyn opened her mouth, closed it, and then finally managed to say, "If he gets me, will he leave?"

Trevor already knew what the kid's answer would be before he said it; nothing was ever that simple.

"No. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them, kill them anyway. I don't like him."

"Shit, me neither," Trevor murmured to Varric, who made a strangled noise in response.

Then, Cullen was laying out his plan. Turn around their last remaining trebuchet, hit the mountain behind Haven, bury the army—and all of them with it. Not a great plan, but it was made significantly better when that dying priest piped up with an escape route.

"But what of your escape?" Cullen asked Evelyn, and her jaw tightened.

A moment passed where they all absorbed that, and then Trevor geared himself up to do something that would have Sypha and Alucard pulling their beautiful hair out—though, to be fair, those brave, reckless bastards would do the same in his position.

"Alright, I'm coming, too," Trevor said, pushing off the wall with a lazy grace.

Now the room's eyes were on him—great—and Evelyn demanded, "What?"

"Do you expect that you'll be able to fight through all that and realign the trebuchets alone? There's an army out there. And a dragon—can't forget the dragon." Trevor then gestured at himself. "I've heard I can be quite the distraction."

He had a point, and everyone there knew it. Even Evelyn did, but she shook her head anyway.

"Trevor, you can't. This isn't—he's got a fucking Archdemon. You can't fight that."

"Oh, yeah?" Trevor felt his mouth twitch upwards for the first time since he'd landed in this world, and the Morning Star hummed eagerly at his hip. "I'm Trevor fucking Belmont, and I've never lost a fight to man nor fucking beast."

Then, he moved to the doors. Hands braced to push, he looked back at Evelyn, raising an eyebrow. She stared at him with parted lips for only a moment before her jaw set, and she gave him a solemn nod.

Trevor returned it, and he pushed through the doors and back into the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to u by barbecue lays, because mmmm good


	6. Chapter 6

Haven was destroyed.

Even if they hadn't been about to bury it in an avalanche, Trevor doubted it could be recovered. The dragon had been thorough, and every building he saw as they ran through the remains of the village was either a smoldering pile of ashes or well on its way to becoming one.

Trevor wrenched the Morning Star out of the dissolving corpse of another Red Templar, glanced to make sure Evelyn was still with him, and continued on. The Red Templars were everywhere, swarming to them like flies on raw meat, and Trevor kept them at bay as he flashed his chain whip as fast as he could. He was helped along by the arrows Evelyn sent into the ones he missed, but he knew it couldn't last forever.

By the time they got to the remaining trebuchet, his arms were protesting every snap and pull he made. Evelyn climbed up onto the platform and began to crank the wheel, beginning the process of spinning the trebuchet around, and Trevor grunted as a Templar's blade managed to get past his guard and slice his arm. The culprit was quickly disposed of, but now blood was running down his arm, quick and hot, and the ache of it wasn't doing him any favors.

Evelyn cranked the wheel; Trevor swung the Morning Star. This continued for a few more minutes before, after bashing in another Templar's head, Trevor realized there were no more Templars to fight.

He wasn't even going to bother to be hopeful that he'd scared off the rest of them—and the dragon's screech reaching his ears a few moments later proved that decision to be wise. Trevor covered his face with an arm as a fireball hit the ground only yards away.

Fuck, the trebuchet. If that thing went up, they were doomed—them and everyone else. He met Evelyn's panicked eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing. And he took a deep breath.

Then, he looked up, and as the dragon made another low pass around, he snapped the Morning Star upwards, where it whirled around the dragon's front leg and then cinched tight as the beast continued to fly unobstructed—pulling Trevor into the air with it.

"Shit!" he shouted, even though this was a very predictable result of him deciding to latch onto a flying dragon over ten times his size. Still, complaining about it made him feel a little better about his current position, so as he swung wildly through the air as the dragon circled around, he yelled, "This was not a good idea!"

Nonetheless, he began to climb, arms shaking as he heaved himself up the length of the Morning Star's chain as he whirled through the air. Just as he managed to grab onto the dragon's leg, it let out another screech, and Trevor could feel the heat building in the chest beside his head that heralded another fireball.

With one arm wrapped around the dragon's leg and gripping onto Morning Star as tightly as possible, Trevor used his other to draw his shortsword and stab it into the meat of the limb he was riding. It didn't do much more than incite a short, displeased squawk from the beast, but stabbing it was only half the plan.

Muttering curses to himself as the creature swung around, his stomach somersaulting, Trevor grabbed hold of the hilt of his shortsword and shook the Morning Star, sending slack up the chain that allowed it to unwrap itself from the dragon's leg. Immediately, the consequences of said action were catching up to him as he was left dangling on by only the dubious grip he had on his shortsword's hilt, but, as the sword began to come free, Trevor flung the Morning Star again, this time wrapping the chain around one of the dragon's horns.

Just in time, too—Trevor's weight pulled the sword from the dragon's leg right before the Morning Star caught, and for a split second Trevor was in freefall. But then he was hanging onto the chain from the beast's horns, stomach in his mouth and heart somewhere by his ankles as it swooped along some trees, and he once again pulled himself up until he was literally holding onto the side of the dragon's face for dear life as it roared and thrashed, trying to get him off.

Fuck, he was going to be so sore if he lived through this.

The heat was building, and he could feel the dragon's maw begin to open. He squinted against the wind whipping past his face and saw the tear-blurred form of a trebuchet take shape ahead. He couldn't see how close it was to being aimed nor whether Evelyn was still even alive, but he figured he ought to finish what he started, anyway.

And as the heat finally reached its peak, slightly painful where Trevor's chest was pressed to the dragon's skin, he reeled back, pulled one of his small knives from the sheath on his chest, and stabbed the dragon's eye.

The following happened in immediate succession: the dragon let out an awful screech and swerved, lurching sharply to the right towards its new blind spot; the fireball shot far off course and destroyed a group of pine trees rather than the trebuchet; blood and plasma and a whole host of unfortunate liquids burst onto Trevor's hand, making him lose hold on his knife and have it join his shortsword on the list of weapons he lost that day; and, lastly, Trevor threw up.

Yeah, he wasn't going to tell anyone about that part.

He barely managed to hang on to the dragon through it all. The hand he used to stab it was scrabbling to find purchase as the dragon jerked and twisted in its attempts to shake him lose, screeching terribly all the while, and he felt more than one thing in his chest snap as its erratic movements brought him slamming back into its skull over and over. But he held on, because he wasn't going to die by falling to his fucking death off a stupid dragon that he'd just stabbed—and eventually, the dragon changed directions again, this time diving abruptly downwards and hitting the ground at a run.

The world flashed by him as the dragon thundered across the snow, and Trevor briefly considered his position—extremely nauseous, dizzy, aching, and tired, holding onto a dragon that was royally pissed off at him.

So, trying not to think too deeply about what will happen next, Trevor shook the Morning Star loose and let go of the dragon's face.

His back hit the ground, and he couldn't breathe. He lay there, mouth opening and closing, wind thoroughly knocked out of him, for what felt like an eternity as his lungs struggled to remember how to be lungs. Then, when black spots were threatening the edges of his vision, he sucked a shuddering breath in, and his lungs kicked back into action.

So: breathing was good, even if doing so made a stabbing pain rip through his chest. He then tried to wiggle his toes, and thankfully those were in working order, too. Main two concerns assuaged, he began to push himself into a sitting position, because as shitty as he felt right now, he had a job to do.

Damn, Trevor wasn't going to say he was lucky, but this was the closest he'd ever gotten to it—he'd landed in a snowbank. That probably directly related to the fact that he was still even alive. He sat there for a few moments, groaning and panting and trying to get used to how bad moving felt, before he sucked in a breath and tried getting to his feet.

It took a while.

But eventually, with much vehement cursing, he managed it, and then he was stumbling down the convenient path the dragon had left as it barrelled through the snow.

"I'm Trevor fucking Belmont," he muttered to himself, one arm wrapped around his chest as he carried himself past where the trees ended.

When he reached the clearing directly outside Haven, the trampled snow still scattered with dozens of corpses and slushy with blood, he paused for a moment when he saw what, exactly, was happening: a hundred or so yards out, the dragon—ugh—and some tall, fucked-up man that had the same red lyrium sprouting out of him that those Templars did were both looming over Evelyn as she pressed herself up against the trebuchet.

He tossed his head back and groaned. Then, because he was Trevor _fucking_ Belmont, he started to run towards them as fast as he possibly could.

Sprinting through the snow and leaping over corpses is not something he would ever claim to be particularly fond of, but that was especially true when he had several broken ribs shouting at him to stop and the rest of him demanding that he lay down and never move again. And, look, he was definitely planning on doing exactly that—just, right after he did this.

This, being bursting onto the platform beside Evelyn right as she kicked the trebuchet's lever. Trevor didn't bother to watch the boulder fly, though, because he knew exactly what he'd see: all the snow on that fucking mountain crashing down on them.

Instead, he grabbed Evelyn by the wrist—ignoring her surprised exclamation of "Trevor!" as she realized he was not, in fact, dead by dragon—and started pulling her forwards. Luckily, she caught on fast, and then they were both running as quick as their aching bodies could carry them as a tsunami of snow devoured the world behind them.

Then, just as the cold began to reach them, the ground beneath them shifted, and in a manner that was becoming almost routine at this point, Trevor braced himself as the floor gave way and they plummeted down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more than half of this is just trevor dangling off the side of a dragon


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chappy go nuts

Sypha was calling his name.

It was as if he was underwater—her voice was strangely distorted, growing louder and softer in turns, sounding not quite like her voice at all.

But she was calling his name, and she was begging for him to wake up, and she was Sypha, so Trevor forced himself to claw at the water keeping him from consciousness until his eyes cracked open.

Except it was not, in fact, Sypha leaning over him, holding his face in her hands.

It was Evelyn, and Trevor swallowed back the disappointment that threatened to rise up and choke him, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in through his nose—which, ow—to let it out slowly from his mouth.

Then, he opened his eyes again.

Yeah, it was Evelyn, with blood dribbling down from a wound somewhere by her hairline and dirt smeared across her chin, looking worse for wear. He imagined he didn't look much better—or better at all, really, because he felt like he got stomped on by a whole herd of goats, punched by a cyclops, then thrown back to the goats again.

That couldn't be a good sign.

"Trevor? Trevor, are you awake?"

"Mmph," he grunted, because he was still getting used to having a body made of pain.

That wasn't good enough for Evelyn, though, and her hands were on his face again, patting his cheeks until he was glaring up at her. "Nngh, fuck off."

"Oh, thank the Maker," she breathed, leaning back on her heels. She pressed a hand to her chest as she looked down at him with relief brimming in her eyes. "I thought you were dead."

"I get that a lot," he mumbled, twitching his fingers, but even that increased the dull ache radiating from his arms into a burn. "Ouch."

"Ouch?" Evelyn repeated, incredulous. "You're—"

She didn't seem to have a proper word to describe his state and was left gesturing at his prone form as she floundered.

Trevor grunted. "Incredibly handsome?"

"Wrecked."

He shifted a foot—mistake. "Yeah, I'm getting that feeling."

Evelyn sighed, her face falling into her mud-smeared hands. "How am I going to get you out of here?"

 _Here_ was a small, dark cave lit only by the flickering green glow from Evelyn's palm. Trevor couldn't make out a lot of details, but he did see that there was a tunnel leading on straight ahead. Along with that, a few various crates—all open and likely rifled through and discarded by Evelyn already.

Damn. He would've really appreciated a convenient bottle of cave alcohol right about now. Guess he was stuck with his usual Belmont brand of determination—or, as Alucard liked to call it, pig-headed stubbornness—to get him through instead.

"Alright," Trevor said, voice tight and body tense as he prepared for what he was about to do. "Let's go."

All at once, he shoved himself into a sitting position. And, uh—shit.

For a bit, all he could hear was a rushing noise. Then, little by little, it transformed into a different sound: a low-pitched hum, almost a whine. It made his throat hurt to hear. As he became more aware of other things—Evelyn's panicked voice saying his name, hands on his shoulders keeping him upright, his own body loudly cussing him out—he realized that it was him making the sound, and he immediately choked it back.

"Maker's breath, you're such an idiot," she told him once he'd come back to himself. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek as she watched him.

He shrugged, then he winced. "Yeah. You going to help me stand?"

Evelyn grumbled, but she still agreed.

Standing was actually a bit easier than sitting up was, probably in no small part due to Evelyn basically heaving him up by the armpits—which was very impressive, since she was several inches shorter than him and at least fifty pounds smaller—as he scrambled to get his legs under him. Less torso movement, that way. Still, by the time he was on two feet, his arm thrown over her shoulders, they were both sweating even in the cold of their cave, and Trevor could feel how pale his face had gotten. Nausea churned ominously in the pit of his stomach, but he stoically ignored it.

Evelyn was looking nervously up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Fantastic," he breathed around the stabbing pain. "We should go now."

So they went, stumbling and staggering down the tunnel in the blind hope that it would lead them to the surface rather than deeper in. It was a slow process, partly because Trevor's legs were heavier than he was used to them being, and he kept tripping, saved from falling several times only by Evelyn's vice-like grip on the back of his shirt. She must've had some killer biceps going on.

At some point, there were demons. Trevor fumbled for the Morning Star—and thank God he hadn't lost that in the mess—but Evelyn shook her head and leaned him up against the wall before going forwards on her own, despite the fact that she had no weapon but the last small knife from Trevor's chest sheaths.

As it would turn out, though, she didn't even need that. Because as she approached the demons on silent feet, their chittering covering up any faint noise she may have made in her worn out state, the mark on her hand decided to help them out, and it opened up a small tear that sucked the demons away before helpfully snapping shut. Good to know that's something that she can do now.

They kept going. On through the tunnel and its darkness that seemed endless until it abruptly did, in fact, end when they turned a corner to see it open up to the surface.

They kept going. Across a field of white, no indication of what direction they were heading in save for the vague outline of the mountain that Haven sat at the bottom of barely visible through the snow whipping through the air.

They kept going. Even as Trevor's legs went completely numb, torso following soon after, and Evelyn was carrying him more than not. Even as Evelyn began to stumble, her skin growing pale, lips slightly bluer than they should have been as wolves and the wind howled all around them. Even as Trevor started losing flashes of time, walking past a tree, blinking and the tree was long gone.

They kept going, because Trevor was a Belmont who wasn't about to freeze to death on a mountain, and because Evelyn apparently had some unstoppable drive within her that gave her the strength to drag his deadweight up a mountain.

They kept going, until Evelyn finally collapsed under Trevor's bulk, and he had no way to keep them from plummeting forward, both of them landing in the snow with a muted thump that he knew should have hurt but didn't.

Trevor blinked sluggishly, snow a burning nothing against his bare cheek, and his eyes drifted from Evelyn's slack face to the remains of a campfire just a few feet away.

Then, his eyes slid shut, and Alucard's voice washed over him, shouting from a great distance, "There! It's them!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really bad several of y’all commented like “yay alucard!!!” but uhhhhh that bitch was just delirious. Im so sorry

"If you keep trying to walk, you will undo all the work I have done to heal you."

It wasn't the first time Trevor had heard the warning from Solas that day, and he doubted it would be the last. Trevor just wasn't good at sitting still—and he was much worse at allowing himself to be carried while everyone else marched up the mountain. The fact that he felt absolutely fine wasn't helping the case for him to rest, either.

"Technically, you are healed," Solas said, sounding as put-upon as he did every time Trevor pointed it out, "but your injuries are still delicate, and they will reemerge if you continue to push yourself."

"I'm not delicate," Trevor argued, but then Evelyn was coming over to see what was holding them up, and she was getting all soft-eyed and concerned as she talked about how he _didn't wake up for three days_ and _was bleeding internally_ and _nearly died_.

To which he brought up the fact that Evelyn also almost died and was still walking around, but apparently even she had taken a day to rest; he'd just been unconscious for it.

Damn. There went that argument.

Which was how he'd ended up stuck riding in a wagon alongside the supplies they managed to rescue from Haven, being pulled by a hulking cow-horse-lizard-thing called a bronto as the remains of the Inquisition headed up the mountain towards wherever Evelyn was leading them, guided by the grace of the Maker—or, more likely, Solas, who'd been spending equal amounts of time telling Evelyn where to go next and bugging Trevor about his _delicate injuries_.

Trevor grumbled just at the thought of it, kicking the wooden chest at his feet. He'd show Solas how delicate he was—

"Hey, hunter, how you holding up?"

Trevor blinked, pulled out of his sulking, and he shifted to see Varric strolling alongside his wagon, grinning at him like he knew exactly how Trevor felt about the whole arrangement. Trevor grunted.

"That good, huh? I can get Solas, if you need some help." Somehow, the grin on Varric's face got even more shit-eating.

"Go die," Trevor grumbled half-heartedly, and Varric laughed.

"Hey, don't blame the dwarf," Varric said, raising his hands and failing to look innocent. "You can't really expect to just be able to walk off being buried by an avalanche."

Trevor opened his mouth to point out that he did walk off being buried by an avalanche, if only for a mile or so, but a booming voice beat him to speaking.

"Don't forget about the dragon ride," the Iron Bull called out from a few yards back, and Trevor and Varric both turned to watch him approach with varying levels of enthusiasm. The Iron Bull didn't look at all put off by the sullen look Trevor fixed him with, and he fell into step with Varric beside the wagon.

"That's right," Varric said, face lighting up. "How could I have forgot to mention that? You know, we could see you dangling from the dragon as we went up the mountain."

"We could," the Iron Bull agreed, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. His voice went a bit husky as he continued, "How did it feel to be holding onto something so powerful? To hear it gurgle right before it spat fire? To feel its roar all the way in your bones?"

"Painful," Trevor deadpanned, but the Iron Bull's grin only grew.

"Badass."

The next several hours were spent with the Iron Bull and Varric attempting to pry every last detail of the fight out of him. It was—really strange, if Trevor were being honest, but not entirely unwelcome. Not many people wanted to hear tales of his exploits; most, after he laid waste to one beast or another, wanted him gone as quickly as possible so they could put the experience behind them.

Not so with these guys—the Iron Bull was practically bouncing at every small detail he managed to get Trevor to share, and at some point, Varric had even pulled out a journal and begun scribbling his responses down. After some time, Trevor had started participating more fully, and even more people came over to walk beside his wagon.

Their group consisted of a portion of the Iron Bull's men, Blackwall, and Sera. They, too, wanted a play-by-play of Trevor's ride on the dragon—and with Varric and the Iron Bull's help and added embellishments, Trevor begrudgingly told the story once more, much to his audience's delight. When he got to the end, Sera even addressed him directly when she told him that "big-creepy's pet right shat you out—not bad, though." He took it as a compliment.

From there, the group went on to sharing other stories—the Iron Bull and his Chargers had plenty amongst them, and Varric was a fantastic storyteller. Blackwall didn't tell any, but his commentary more than made up for it. Sera's tales were good, too, once Trevor had gotten used to the way she spoke.

By the time they stopped for camp that night, Trevor realized he'd been in the wagon all day and had forgotten to continue his attempts to escape. He suspected that the Iron Bull and Varric may have had some ulterior motives in harassing him for the story, but he found that he didn't mind too much.

In fact, he was in a fairly good mood when he settled into his tent for the night; dinner had been sparse but decent, Evelyn had returned to sit with him after her meeting with the advisors was over, and Solas had told him that he'd likely be able to carry himself tomorrow—which was good, since lazing around in a cart while others, especially women and children, were forced to walk didn't sit right with him.

It was an easy end to a decent day. He laid down to rest feeling tired but not exhausted, expecting to close his eyes and slip away easily as he finally relaxed.

That was not what happened.

Instead, Trevor remained awake. He turned to his side, then he turned on his back. He glared up at the tent. He groaned, pressed his palms against his eyes, and sat up.

"Fine," he huffed, and he pulled back on his boots, buckled his belt, and made sure the Morning Star was sitting at his hip. Then, he rolled out of his tent.

It was technically the next day, so his walking shouldn't get him in trouble. That was what he was going to tell Solas and Evelyn, should they find out about his midnight—er, very early morning—stroll. The soldier taking watch on his side of camp gave Trevor a look, but he just shrugged, pointed at his crotch, and motioned to the woods in a message that the soldier recieved with a cough and a nod.

But even after Trevor did go take care of business, upon returning to camp, his mind still buzzed with an unruly energy that kept him from rest—so instead of retreating back to his tent to sit in the dark and the silence, he moved over towards the fire and told the soldier he'd take over from there.

"What?" the guy asked, blinking. "I can't just let you take my watch."

"Why not? I'm awake. You're tired. I'm offering."

"I have orders," was the weary reply.

"Look, kid, I can handle it. If you get in trouble, just tell them I threatened you away."

A few more token protests, and then Trevor was taking the soldier's place by the fire, sitting on a log and facing out to the woods, watching the fire at his back make his shadow stretch out on the snow before him.

For some reason, he wasn't all that surprised when he saw another shadow join his.

"Injured men should not be taking watch shifts," Solas said, coming to a halt a few feet away, folding his hands behind his back as he looked down at Trevor.

"I thought you said I wasn't injured."

"I did," Solas replied, inclining his head, "but you very well could become so again if you do not rest."

Trevor exhaled a humorless laugh. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were threatening me."

"You do not know me very well at all, Belmont."

Trevor flicked his eyes up to where Solas stood, looming a little. "I'm fine."

"Clearly," he replied, voice dry, "but I believe I will stay anyway. At the very least, so that the soldier you dismissed does not get punished for giving his post to a man still recovering from what were life-threatening wounds."

At least he didn't call them delicate injuries, this time.

Trevor was too tired to argue. "Suit yourself."

Solas did, choosing to sit at the far end of the same log Trevor was. It put them a solid few feet apart, but still closer than what Trevor would have preferred.

Fine. If he wanted to sit and make sure Trevor was competent enough to stay awake on a watch, than that was up to him. He better not complain if he got tired on the march tomorrow—er, today.

A few minutes passed in silence. The only noises to be heard were the crackling of the fire, the wind blowing lazily through the mountain pass they were camped in, and some truly gnarly snoring coming out of a tent a few yard away—Trevor thought it was the one Blackwall and Varric were sharing, but he wasn't sure.

Anyway, it was quiet enough that Trevor tensed a bit at the sound of Solas' voice, breaking the silence like glass, and he tensed even more when he heard the question he asked:

"Who is Alucard?"

Trevor's heart stuttered in his chest as his gaze snapped over. His first reaction was to snarl something insulting back, but he resisted doing so only barely by reminding himself that people were sleeping, and, technically, this guy saved his life several times.

Still, he couldn't quite prevent the way his voice was almost a growl when he asked, "What?"

"Alucard," Solas repeated, raising an eyebrow. Even under the force of Trevor's scowl, his own expression remained smooth. "You were calling that name as I healed you the day you and the Herald returned."

That was embarrassing. He must've been pretty out of it to do something like that. He wondered who heard him—besides Solas, apparently.

He also wondered why Solas was asking him about it now, as he voluntarily sat next to him in the middle of the night. If this was some kind of game, Trevor didn't want to play it. He wasn't interested in being the subject of a study, nor was he intending to spill all his feelings out like a child. Trevor hadn't forgotten his first interaction with Solas, even if he respected him a bit more after seeing him fight at Haven.

"He's," Trevor paused, fists clenching, throat tight, "a friend."

Solas' head tilted to the side, and Trevor hated the way he felt like an open book under his gaze, to be flipped through and discarded once he was all figured out.

"Someone from your home," Solas said, and Trevor's scowl unwittingly deepened.

"Is there a point to these questions?" he asked, just on this side of a snap, and Solas' eyebrow twitched, gaze narrowing—but then whatever tension had just begun to build drained out of him just as quickly, and he was left watching Trevor with something unreadable in his face.

"Sometimes, I have found it can be a comfort to answer questions about your home," Solas replied. His tone was—uncharacteristically gentle as he spoke. "I did not mean to aggravate any wounds."

Fuck. He wasn't allowed to talk to him about this. That's not how it worked. Trevor was supposed to cover up his pain by being a drunken, smelly, uncaring asshole, and everyone else was supposed to stay away. Solas wasn't supposed to just ignore him and keep pushing.

Trevor could feel his chest getting tight and his shoulders hunching. His face wanted to twist, but years of practice allowed him to school it into the same uncaring mask that he always had it in, even as the rest of him rebelled.

"It's fine."

Solas nodded and turned his face to the trees beyond the camp, their shapes just barely visible to Trevor by the firelight. Trevor hoped that the conversation was over—that Solas had gotten whatever the fuck he wanted from his interrogation and now would leave him the hell alone for the rest of the night.

But then, after an unidentified amount of time had passed, Solas spoke again, voice barely above a murmur, "I have once faced a loss such as yours."

Biting back his gut reaction, Trevor instead turned his face slightly in Solas' direction—just enough so that he'd know he'd heard—and let him continue.

And continue Solas did, "It sounds presumptuous of me to claim, but it is the truth. My people—I had a terrible choice to make, and when I made it, they were torn away from me forever."

Trevor didn't know what to say. Of all the things he expected Solas to tell him—that wasn't it. He didn't expect that Solas may be looking for understanding out of this conversation—that he wasn't just looking to pick Trevor apart to sate his own curiosity.

It was unfortunate, then, that he was stuck with Trevor, who wasn't good at comforting others. Or sympathy. Or any of the tender shit one was expected to offer another person in pain. He sifted through his brain for something to say, some phrase that had offered him some semblance of reassurance in his life, but he came back with nothing.

Then, he remembered Solas' words from earlier.

Trevor asked, "What were they like?"

Solas' eyebrows flicked upwards in surprise, and his mouth twitched into a brief smile. "I appreciate the thought, but that is not necessary. It was some time ago."

Trevor nodded, shoulders releasing some tension. He watched as the fire behind them made their shadows dance against the snow and felt time trickle onwards as they sat without speaking on the edge of camp. With only the view of the woods and the shadows, he could almost pretend he was somewhere else, sitting next to someone else. Despite his ribs being healed, his chest ached.

"Do you miss them?" Trevor finally asked, breaking the silence with a rough voice.

"Everyday," Solas said quietly. "Do you?"

He'd been trying so hard not to think about them, but they were everywhere.

Every time he caught a glimpse of blonde hair, he thought of Alucard and his golden curls that gleamed white in the sunlight and the way he'd notice Trevor watching him and his mouth would curve into a fond smile. Every time someone mentioned magic, his mind clicked to Sypha and how her face would light up and her accent would get thicker as she talked excitedly about the subject. Everyday, something would happen and Trevor would turn to his side with a snarky comment bound to earn him a scoff or an eyeroll, but the absence of the people it was meant for made the words die in his mouth unspoken.

Trevor was used to being alone. He'd spent his whole life that way after the estate was burnt down, his family with it. But then Sypha and Alucard had come and reached down into the bog of self-isolation and self-pity he buried himself in and dragged him back up. Being with them—it was like feeling the sun for the first time in years.

And now they were gone. He was gone.

The lack felt colder and lonelier than it ever had before.

Trevor swallowed. His throat strained against the words that wanted to come vomitting out, the pain that no one really wanted to hear, the shame, the fear—

He said, "Yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing a fic where i get to shit on solas: hehehehehe  
> me, upon realizing that he would probably understand what Trevor's going through the best: fuck


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back, back again

Two long days of walking later, they arrived at the place that Evelyn—and Solas—was leading them to.

Skyhold was magnificent. The closest thing he'd ever seen to it was Dracula's—well, Alucard's now—castle, but even that was so different that the comparison didn't quite hold up.

While Dracula's castle was a beast of dark metal, both awful and amazing to look at, a wonder of technology beyond what was currently available on Earth, Skyhold's magnificence was less… glaring. Not that Skyhold was subtle—a huge castle perched amongst the mountains fit with arches and bridges and towers was the very opposite of subtle—but it was more grounded, not so much something that had come from another world as much as something that had grown from it.

Trevor could almost feel the stone walls sing with life under his hands. Even as run down as it had been upon their arrival—something that was changing very quickly under Josephine's direction—Trevor could still see exactly how incredible it was, the opportunity it presented to the Inquisition.

It was a place to grow—a place that they could really build off of. Haven wasn't like that, as good as it may have been to them initially; it was too small, too run-down to be a proper headquarters. This place was different. This place was powerful. It would have people coming from all over Thedas just to see.

That, along with the fact that Evelyn was officially the Inquisitor, would make up for whatever losses they faced at Haven—strategically, at least. Though, frankly, Trevor had been surprised to find out that Evelyn hadn't been in charge the entire time; it seemed to him like she'd been making all the decisions for awhile.

After all, she was the one who'd decided to take him back to Haven. She was the one who got him out of his cell, invited him to join the Inquisition, closed the Breach. She stayed behind to fight the dragon and Corypheus, to make sure the rest of them survived. She'd been acting like a leader the entire time Trevor had been around—it was absurd that they only just now recognized that.

A week filled with repairing and recuperating and planning later, Evelyn finally tracked him down.

Not that he'd been hiding. He'd just been spending time in the room they assigned him, taking advantage of the actual bed he had—first one he'd stayed in more than one consecutive night in years—to sleep in luxury. Apparently, though, it was hard to find his room amongst all the others in the residence hall. Not that Trevor had any trouble with it; after finding his way there fall-down drunk, he was sure he'd be able to find it no matter the circumstances.

Evelyn didn't find it with such ease, she'd shared, but she made it there eventually, and now was sitting on the chest at the foot of Trevor's bed, taking her time to look around his room with a tilted head before reluctantly returning her gaze to him, where he sat leaning up against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him.

"How do you like Skyhold, so far?" she began.

"It's fine," he replied. "Better than Haven—I mean, unfortunate that it got buried and all, but honestly, that place was terrible."

Evelyn nodded, mouth twitching upwards—but it quickly fell back down into the frown it was twisted in. Trevor wasn't sure if she was aware how clearly her emotions were spilled across her face. The frown, the little wrinkle in her brow, the way her hands twisted together—he'd been able to tell she was anxious from the moment she'd stepped into his room.

It didn't make him particularly optimistic about this conversation.

"That's good," she said, still insisting on continuing the small talk. "I—well, I hope you like your room. It's not much, but it was one of the first ones we had available. We can move you somewhere different—somewhere with windows—once we've more space."

"Nah, don't," he said. "This is better than anything I've had since I was a kid."

In fact, this was the first time he'd had a room of his own since before his home burnt down. Even after they cleared out Dracula's castle, all of them hesitated to sleep there—and they'd mostly been busy wandering around and putting a stop to Carmilla's forces and whatever other monsters were harassing people. Not much time for anything but a quick stop in an inn, which was nice and more than he'd usually been able to afford previous to meeting Sypha and Alucard—but there was something about having a room, a bed to call his own, that was profoundly satisfying. He wouldn't be giving it up anytime soon if he could help it.

Evelyn nodded at his words, wringing her hands as she did so. She hesitated, then said, "Nice weather we've been having—"

"Would you get to the point?"

Evelyn winced. "Am I that obvious?"

"You need to work on your poker face."

"'Poker'?" Evelyn repeated—oh, yes, that's right. They didn't have that on Thedas. Instead, it was a similar game called Wicked Grace. Whatever. Trevor waved her off and stuck her with a glare for changing the subject. She shrugged and looked at him sheepishly. "Can't blame me for trying, can you?"

"I can, but I won't if you get on with it."

Evelyn sighed, shoulders deflating. Yeah, Trevor was really not looking forward to whatever news she had.

"I have a proposal," Evelyn began, "about getting you home."

That—was not what he was expecting her to say. He ought to have, he supposed, but he hadn't thought she'd look so worried about it.

"Did you find a way, then?" he asked. He didn't particularly believe she had, but—maybe that's why she was nervous? Maybe they found a way, and it was risky. That was fine. He'd take the risk.

"Er, no," Evelyn said, face falling, cheeks going hot. "No, I'm sorry. I started that wrong. I mean that I've finally found a person to dedicate towards researching it."

"Oh," Trevor tried to keep the way his heart fell an inch out of his voice, and he was certain he succeeded. He hadn't truly expected her to have come up with a solution anyway—not before Sypha. "Alright."

"You're not going to ask who it is?"

Trevor sighed. "I was hoping you'd just tell me."

"Right, yes. It's Gereon Alexius. You may remember that he's the one—"

Oh, he remembered Alexius.

"He's the one who fucking brought me here," Trevor growled, sitting up more fully, suddenly tense.

Just the thought of him made Trevor tremble with rage—and now Evelyn was working with him? Expecting the man to help?

Trevor hadn't been planning on putting much faith in the efforts that Evelyn promised to organize, but now, with her plans out in the open—well, the best Trevor could do was hope that Alexius didn't fuck everything up further.

Actually, that was a good point—"What if he does it again? Pulls some other sorry asshole from their world?"

Evelyn swallowed back a flinch, clearly having been bracing herself for this exact response. "He'll have Templars with him at all times, and Dorian—"

"No. Fuck, no. If this is supposed to be for my benefit, then I'm telling you right now I don't want it."

Evelyn's lips flattened, nostrils flaring, and she had the tenseness about her that let Trevor know she wasn't pleased. That was fine; Trevor wasn't either.

In a measured voice, all carefully-chosen words and perfect enunciation, Evelyn said, "Trevor, I really think this is the best possible option."

"And I really think that giving this guy any leeway is a mistake," Trevor countered, getting out of bed to stalk along the wall, running a hand through his hair.

Evelyn's eyes followed him as he paced, as she spoke to him about the precautions they were taking, but—couldn't she see how bad of an idea this was? He caused this. He was the reason why Trevor was in this hell-hole. If not for Alexius, he'd be in Wallachia. If not for Alexius, he'd be with Sypha and Alucard.

And now he was going to help send Trevor back? Just like that? No fucking way.

Trevor let out a short growl, cutting Evelyn off, and came to a stop. "I don't care. I don't care if you chain him up or have some fucked up mage-killers to guard him. I don't care if he's sorry—he did this. I don't want him anywhere near my world."

Evelyn's brows drew together as she also stood, looking to him entreatingly. "I understand that, but he's the best option we have. If he can't get you home, then I don't think anyone will be able to."

At that, Trevor's stomach plummeted. The food he'd eaten a few hours ago was like lead in the pit of his gut. He shook his head weakly and said, "Sypha can. I know she can."

His voice was brittle, almost unrecognizable. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Evelyn's voice was soft, pitying as she started, "Trevor—"

"Fuck off, already," he said, more tired than snappish. The hand she'd been reaching towards him drew back, and she stepped away. Trevor didn't bother to look at her face; he knew what he'd see, and he pretended like it didn't make his stomach twist. "And don't you dare let that asshole even think about messing with my world."

She left. He didn't watch her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! sorry it took so long but in my defense uhhhh fuck


	10. Chapter 10

Trevor dropped another empty mug onto the counter and flicked a hand at the bartender. "Another ale, would you please?"

Cabot grunted and refilled his mug without a word, and Trevor wasted little time in lifting it to his lips and taking a long pull. He was finally reaching that wonderful place where his brain went in tired loops around itself, too sluggish to linger much on any one thought. It made pushing aside the stirrings of guilt he felt at Sypha and Alucard's imagined reactions much easier.

Oh, how they hated when he drank. It was too bad they weren't there to stop him.

Instead, Trevor was left alone to get gloriously drunk in the tavern that had popped up pretty much as soon as they'd settled in Skyhold. It was almost funny how it had been up and running long before any other building was cleared, but Trevor wasn't about to complain or anything. He was certainly glad of it now.

Another swig. Another. Another—and his mug was empty. He stared into it, mouth pulling down, and was about to call for another refill when a hand slapped his shoulder.

Trevor tensed, hand going to his hip, but he aborted the movement when he heard Sera cackling in his ear.

"Jumpy, yeah?" she crowed, sliding onto the stool next to him while still somehow leaning her entire weight on his shoulder. By the bright pink flush across her face, she was similarly well past drunk—the way she brandished her own empty mug in the air hinted at the same. "Fuckin' piss, this is. Give us more!"

Trevor tilted his head at Cabot and shrugged. "Please?"

Cabot rolled his eyes but dutifully refilled their mugs, ignoring the prolonged raspberry Sera blew at him as he did so.

Upon having a filled mug, Sera scooped it up and began to gulp it down, not pausing for breath. Trevor watched, vaguely interested, and drank his own ale with slightly more restraint. She slammed the empty mug back down on the counter with a breathless, toothy grin and a triumphant caw.

"Fuck yeah!" She used Trevor's shoulder to heave herself higher and pump her fist in the air, letting out a series of whoops that had Trevor grimacing, and he pushed her off him with a grunt.

"Please, stop," he said.

Sera sank back down onto her stool, expression twisting at his surliness.

"What's got you so droopy?" Sera paused, then her face lit up, and she cackled again. "Oh! The ale! Get it? Droopy—like your wank!"

"Hilarious," Trevor deadpanned and took a pull from his mug.

"You're a right drag." Sera pouted. "Someone oughta come lighten you up—droop 'n all."

Without another word, she wobbled off her stool and leapt away, and Trevor didn't bother turning to watch her go. He continued on with his current mug and listened to the sounds of the Herald's Rest's other patrons.

Then, the Iron Bull dropped onto the stool Sera just vacated, facing Trevor with raised eyebrows.

Trevor sighed. "Sera?"

"Sera," the Iron Bull agreed, his voice a warm rumble. "She said you could use some help."

"My cock is fine," he mumbled into his drink.

"I'm sure," he said, giving Trevor's back a pat—which, ugh. What was with people and touching him all of a sudden? "But, admittedly, that wasn't mentioned. At all."

Oh. Oops. The heat in his face was from the ale, he was sure.

"She said—the ale—" He struggled to come up with a proper explanation, settling finally on, "It's not droopy."

The Iron Bull nodded along with him good-naturedly and let out a chuckle.

"Yeah, I think you've had enough." Without any other warning, he tugged the mug of ale easily from Trevor's grasp. Whatever fight he might have otherwise put up was dulled by the fact that he couldn't quite feel his fingers, and all he could do was curse as the Iron Bull said, "Kind of proving my point here, tough guy."

Trevor scowled hotly. "Get fucked."

"I'll wait 'til your sober for that." Then, the Iron Bull winked—or maybe just blinked. Trevor wasn't sober enough to tell.

But he wasn't drunk enough to keep his face from flushing even further, the drunk-blush enveloped and expanded by a heat that crept up his ears as he sputtered, eyes falling away from the Iron Bull and his vast expanse of taut grey skin.

The Iron Bull laughed, watching Trevor's reaction with glee. "Fuck, that's adorable."

Adorable? He's not adorable. He's Trevor fucking Belmont.

"Yes, well," Trevor grumbled, "If you're going to laugh, at least give my ale back."

The Iron Bull put up his hands, still grinning—though, he didn't give back the drink. "Alright, alright." He watched as Trevor ran a hand over his face, then asked, "So, this about the fight you had with Boss?"

"No," Trevor replied, but his stomach churned at the reminder. So much for his distraction.

"Uh-huh. Wanna talk about it?"

" _No_ ," and the response was nearly a snarl this time. Of course, he didn't want to fucking talk about it. Talking about shit was what got him into this situation in the first place.

He slid off his stool and immediately staggered. The Iron Bull grabbed his shoulders to steady him, but Trevor wrenched himself away and stumbled into a wall. He pressed his forehead against the wood and watched the ground spin.

"Alright, let's get you back to your room."

"Fuck off," Trevor snapped. His skin crawled.

The Iron Bull grinned. "Thought I told you—"

Trevor interrupted him with a frustrated growl, and then he swung a fist towards the Iron Bull's head.

It didn't connect. Trevor was hardly trying, and he was very drunk; plus, the Iron Bull was a professional. His punch didn't even come close. But it still caught the room's attention, a few shouts of alarm raising up, and Cabot immediately snapped at them to take it outside.

The Iron Bull huffed. "Yeah, we're going. Come on, Belmont."

"Don't tell me what to do." Trevor dragged a hand down his face, and then he flinched back when he saw the Iron Bull reaching out for him. "No, hey, fuck—leave me alone."

If the Iron Bull was at all deterred, he didn't show it. A hand closed around Trevor's arm and started pushing him towards the door, to which Trevor responded by trying once more to jerk away from him. Unlike last time, the Iron Bull's grip tightened, preventing Trevor from escaping, and—something in his blood sparked up, a fight dancing at the edge of his mind, drawing nearer.

"Let me go," Trevor demanded, the slur that had been rounding his voice falling away. His fists clenched. The Iron Bull kept dragging him towards the door. "I said, let fucking go—"

"Honestly, Bull, must you make everything so difficult?" Another voice joined the fray, this one posh and dry, drawing Trevor's attention away from the way his blood was beginning to sing for a fight and instead towards the man it belonged to: Dorian, with an unimpressed look leveled at the Iron Bull. "Have you considered that some people do not, in fact, enjoy being manhandled by a thug?"

"That doesn't include you, right?" the Iron Bull said, and Trevor could hear the smirk in his voice. Still, he released Trevor's arm, and the song that had been threatening to bubble up in his veins quieted down, leaving him fuzzy and exhausted and shame-faced. The ale felt stagnant in his stomach.

Dorian rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment. "I'll take Belmont to his room. I need to talk to him, anyway. Maybe you can learn something about manners while I'm away."

"C'mon, I've got great manners. Huge manners. The biggest manners this side of—"

"Lovely." Dorian held open the door and gestured towards Trevor. "Shall we?"

Trevor scowled at him, and then at the Iron Bull, who was watching this interaction with a smirk. Stubbornness was welling up inside him, and he opened his mouth to advise Dorian what to spend the next half hour doing when Dorian sighed.

"If you come quietly, I'll give you a bottle of the Tevinter brandy I've been saving."

A pause, then, "Fine."

The Iron Bull's laugh followed them out, his voice booming, "That's what you call manners?" as the night air poured cool over Trevor's face, flushed and warm. Dorian huffed as he fell into step beside him.

"Idiotic brute," he groused, but the bad mood only lasted as long as it took Trevor to stumble over his own feet. Then, Dorian was lifting his hands, pausing right before he made contact. "Er, may I? I'd rather not have to dodge one of your fists."

Trevor contemplated saying no, but then the world tilted and he choked out an agreement so that Dorian could grab hold of his elbow before he ended up in the dirt.

He steadied Trevor with a grunt of effort. "Wonderful. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my evening."

"Sorry," Trevor said, sarcasm dulled slightly by the unwieldiness of his tongue.

"Yes, well. If you're good, I'll put you on your side so you don't choke on your vomit."

Trevor didn't deign that with a response, instead choosing to focus on putting one foot in front of another.

Skyhold was quiet. The only noise came from the people still going strong in the Herald's Rest that was growing fainter as they walked on, their footsteps as they crossed the yard and entered the keep, making their way back to the residence hall, and the few muttered instructions Trevor offered to lead them back to his room.

Dorian was a solid presence by Trevor's side, keeping him from tripping onto his face several more times in the span of just a few minutes. He didn't complain anymore after his last comment—something that, Trevor knew just from the few times they'd talked, was uncharacteristic of the man—but the quiet was broken as they reached the bottom of the stairs leading down to the stretch Trevor's room was snuggled in.

"Well, I suppose I ought to start now, hm?" Dorian said, voice carefully measured, but it was clear he was not expecting an answer when he kept talking. "Look, Belmont, I know you disapprove of our plans to, er, recruit Alexius for your cause."

Oh. Yes, that had been one of those things the alcohol had so kindly washed away, but Dorian's words brought it and all the anger and hurt associated with it roaring back. He missed a step, and Dorian's arm went around his waist to keep him standing while the man himself let out a few curses in a different language.

Trevor ignored those, instead choosing to force out from his clenched jaw, "Disapprove is putting it lightly."

"I understand. Really, I do. What he did—I cannot imagine the pain," Dorian grimaced. "I am not asking you to sympathize with the man or grant him understanding—I'm certainly not asking you to forgive him. I simply wish for you to reconsider your decision. Alexius may be… he may have been a bastard, but he's brilliant. And he was a good man, once."

"Lots of monsters were good men once," Trevor replied, the words heavy on his tongue. "That didn't stop them from killing people, and it didn't stop me from killing them."

He could hear Dorian swallow.

"That may be true," Dorian allowed, "but he will not be given the opportunity to hurt anyone. This, I swear to you. I will be watching him at every stage, and," this, Dorian said with a glint of confidence, "there is no possible way he could hide some nefarious machination from me."

Maybe not. Maybe Dorian was as clever as he claimed. Maybe those Templars—which, admittedly, Trevor had some issue with; from what he'd heard of them thus far, he'd kill any one of them that came near Sypha—would be able to keep Alexius under control. Maybe everything would be fine, and Alexius was truly reformed or whatever they were trying to convince him of, and the research he did wouldn't end up fucking up the universe even more.

But even then, what would be the point? Why risk it? Sypha was looking for him. Alucard was looking for him. They had the cumulative knowledge of both generations and generations of Belmonts and Dracula's own collection—nothing they had to offer in this world could compare. Not really.

"I don't need his help," Trevor said eventually. They drew up to his door, and Dorian released him to lean up against the frame. "Back home, they're looking for me. They can handle it."

The hall was silent as Dorian considered that. Trevor slumped, waiting. Dorian tweaked the end of his mustache a bit as if in thought, then he sighed. Trevor almost thought he'd gotten him to give up the argument until he spoke.

"If not for yourself," Dorian pushed open the door for Trevor, "then for Evelyn. She feels responsible for your presence here, despite all of the reassurances that have been given to her of the contrary. She wants to help you, Belmont. It would not hurt to let her."

He hadn't considered that—Evelyn feeling responsible. He hadn't thought that she may have a stake in getting him home.

Trevor huffed as Dorian dragged him into his room. "Fine. Do try not to fuck up."

"Of course," Dorian replied, equally dry, "on the condition that you take a shower. You smell like piss and that awful Fereldan ale."

"What's the difference?" Trevor muttered, sinking into his mattress.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter as he retreated from the room. "Yes, quite."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me??? further the plot?? haha unlikely


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long but also love u guys

The next morning found Trevor in a familiar position in the corner of the mess hall, hunched over some sort of breakfast pastry that's smell was making his stomach turn, wincing at all the noise trying to pound his head in.

He'd have slept in, but he usually got up around this time to spar with some of the Chargers—at their insistence, not his. Though, with the way his head was aching, he was seriously considering forgoing that entirely—not because he was afraid he'd lose, but because he was confident that any attempts at movement beyond a stumble would result in the spontaneous upheaval of whatever was churning around in his stomach at the moment, which would probably take away from whatever victories he won.

He still hadn't said anything about throwing up on the dragon.

Trevor had just heaved out a sigh and shoved away his untouched plate when, to his terrible luck, Dorian draped himself on the seat across from him, looking infuriatingly put together.

"Oh, look, you didn't drown in your vomit after all," Dorian said, and his grin only grew wider as Trevor flinched away from the sound of his voice. "You're welcome for that."

"Oh my God, I hate you," Trevor groaned into his palms.

Dorian let out an insulted gasp that was undercut bu the way he gleefully pulled Trevor's abandoned plate towards himself. "Is this the thanks I get for repairing your relationship with our esteemed Inquisitor?"

"I could vomit on you instead, if you'd prefer."

"You're even more charming when sober, aren't you?"

Against all expectations, Dorian really did have a reason for harassing Trevor that morning, beyond just the sadistic pleasure he took in seeing his face turn green. Dorian had spoken to Evelyn and informed her of Trevor's change in heart—something he did, in fact, remember having last night, even if it was a bit blurry. As a small fee for his assistance, Dorian also told Evelyn that Trevor had volunteered to take his place on the upcoming outing to Crestwood.

"I've heard that it's been raining something awful there," Dorian told him, polishing off the last of Trevor's breakfast with a pleased pat of his napkin against his mouth. "Terrible for the dignity of my hair, but you clearly don't care about that, so you'll cope fine."

If it would get Dorian to stop trying to melt Trevor's brain with just his voice, he'd agree to about anything. Besides, he was getting antsy just sitting around Skyhold anyway—there's only so many times he can fight the same people before getting bored, and every time he drank people psychoanalyzed him—take last night, for example.

So Trevor agreed to Dorian's machinations with very little argument. It was about time he started pulling his weight. He was part of this Inquisition thing, and he really hadn't done much to help except drink.

Well, he did fight a dragon. That probably counted for something. He didn't kill it, which was a bit of a let down, but he survived the encounter and took out one of the thing's eyes, so he was still counting it as a win. Man nor beast, indeed.

Cut to Trevor plodding through some mud-covered shit hole alongside Solas, Varric, the Iron Bull, and, of course, Evelyn. Dorian's predictions rang true; the rain was relentless. Trevor would have complained loudly and at length about it, but Varric was doing enough of that for the rest of them, and he wasn't one for redundancy.

Instead, he rode along on the horse he'd been given—a gentle tan mare named Sugar that he definitely was not attached to and that he certainly was not spoiling with all the apples he could find—and spoke only when someone forced him to.

Which, actually, was surprisingly often. Trevor really hadn't considered himself a friend to any of these people—they were more than acquaintances, sure, but mostly just allies that he fought for in exchange for shelter and alcohol—but they were talking to him as if he were.

Evelyn started it by thanking him profusely for his trust and the chance to help, promising that Alexius and Dorian would be doing all they reasonably could. Then, she spent a few miles gushing about his willingness to help and dedication to the cause, to which Trevor could only nod along and wonder what Dorian must have told her he'd said.

Varric and the Iron Bull plied him for stories. Trevor would have shrugged them off and gone to brood about their prodding, but he could remember taking a swing at the Iron Bull the other night when he was drunk off his ass.

When he broached the subject, though, the Iron Bull's response was unexpected.

"I shouldn't have put my hands on you," he told him, flashing his teeth in a grin as he waved off Trevor's—not apology, but awkward reminder about the event. "Read the situation wrong. 'S not like you could have hit me, anyway."

He totally could have, if he'd been trying. He would tell the Iron Bull that, but—well, that sort of defeated the point of the conversation. Instead, he allowed them a single story about the time he took out a rampaging vampire that ended victorious enough. For him, anyway.

Solas was surprisingly decent as well, though he really had been since their embarrassing heart-to-heart on the journey to Skyhold a few weeks back.

He told Trevor all sorts of stories about "the Fade," which was some sort of magic dreamland full of spirits and demons that made the others in the group shifty—so, probably somewhat dangerous, but Solas seemed to like it well enough. It was a mage thing, so that likely had something to do with the others' discomfort. Obviously, people didn't much like magic in any world.

The others had grown tired of Solas' tales, because they drew away every time he began to wax poetic about ancient battlefields and lost memories and all that rot. Well, Evelyn would listen, but it was with a polite sort of interest, and she jumped at chances to go deal with Varric or the Iron Bull instead if they were ever presented.

Trevor understood why; they were boring and flowery and bordering on nonsensical. But—ugh. Call him sappy or pathetic, but they reminded him of Sypha. She always had stories to tell him and Alucard on their travels, her Speaker tales that struck Trevor as far too didactic for his tastes—and on that, Solas was no different; probably even more condescending, if anything—but the habit of nodding along and letting some passioned words rush over him was a bit of a comfort. Familiar, at least.

And it was sort of, er, nice to see the way Solas lit up when Trevor asked him questions. Not that he really cared, but the guy seemed lonely.

Plus, if he was talking about his weird dream adventures, he wasn't interrogating Trevor about Earth, which he hadn't done since that one night, but Trevor wouldn't put it past him.

All in all, it wasn't awful company. They were no Sypha and Alucard, but no one could ever really be.

The actual mission, though—that was absolute shit.

The bandits weren't a problem. Annoying, sure, but not really an issue, even when clearing out that old keep—and subsequently claiming it for the Inquisition.

The undead, though, sucked. Not really hard to kill, but smelled like—well, like corpses. And if he were honest, it made Trevor's chest a little tight to think about the fact that all the zombies he was slashing apart were people once. So he didn't think about it. But he'd rather kill plain old demons any day of the week.

And then the dam. And the bodies. And the caves. And the rift—and the truth.

Oh. Trevor could feel himself trembling as Evelyn finished reading the letter that mayor left.

He killed them. All of them. All those people whose bodies they'd spent hours digging through the rubble for—women and children and men and—and families—

Trevor could imagine their screams. Trapped in their homes with nowhere to go. Everything happening too quickly. Roaring filling their ears. Screaming. The heat of the flames—

No, wait. The water. Water, not fire.

Fuck.

He didn't say anything as Evelyn discussed getting Leliana's people on it. He could barely hear as the others made a few comments, his blood rushing too loudly in his ears. He followed behind them automatically, not really aware of his own feet moving, just thinking about that waterlogged village turned into the graves of dozens upon dozens of people all because of one man who killed them all from his fear.

He was quiet through the time they made camp that night, a few miles out fromthe place they were supposed to meet a contact of Varric's. He ended up sitting on a log, just staring into the flames, his supper ignored in his lap, mind miles and miles—years and years—away.

He only snapped back into focus when he heard Evelyn calling his name. "What?"

"I asked if you're okay," she said. She looked tired, which made sense because that rift was a total shit show. He was glad those things didn't pop up in Wallachia. Her hair sprung wildly from her head, loosened from the bun she'd had it in all day when they settled into camp, and it formed a dark halo around her face as she frowned at him with a worried crease in her forehead. "You've been really quiet."

The others were all trying not to look like they were watching—though the only one who was really any good at the act was the Iron Bull, who continued to chew on his roast meat with only his tilted head indicating he was listening at all. Varric kept up a quiet murmur as he continued telling his story, his words slowing as he tuned into the conversation, and Solas' ears actually twitched as he turned his face a bit to watch. Weird. Did Alucard's ears do that?

"Trevor." Oops.

"I'm fine," he replied, because it was true. He was fine, really.

But Evelyn didn't seem to buy it. "You haven't eaten anything."

Trevor glanced down at his plate of meat—not beef, because apparently that's an Earth thing—and bread sitting untouched, and then he set it to the side with a shrug. "Not hungry."

"Is this about the rift? The undead?"

Trevor opened his mouth to tell her no, but she continued before he could.

"Or the village?" she suggested, watching him closely, "The mayor?"

Trevor's jaw clenched. "Is there a reason I'm being interrogated?"

Evelyn's face fell a bit, and she let out a sigh. "I'm worried about you."

"I told you, I'm fine," he said. "This isn't my first fight. I've been killing beasts much scarier than this since I was a child."

"Oh," Evelyn worried at her bottom lip for a moment, "that must have been tough."

Trevor took a deep breath, thinking back on years of wandering the country with his only constants his whip and his family crest. "Not really. It's in my blood."

Evelyn's dark eyes gleamed in the fire light. "Does everyone in your family do what you do?"

His breath got lodged in his throat as he thought of his sisters—Marta and Carmen and Simona—of his mother and father. He thought of them locked in their house, screaming as it burned down around them, their home turned to their grave because of people's fear.

He shrugged, shoulders heavy. "Belmonts have always hunted monsters."

"And you enjoy it?"

That, at least, was an easy question to answer.

"Yeah," he said, fingers twitching as he thought of Mayor Dedrick, "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all, in all my time playing dragon age inquisition, I only ever executed one man, and it was that asshole mayor of Crestwood. oops


	12. Chapter 12

Varric's friend was waiting for them at the mouth of a cave.

He greeted Varric with a sharp grin and a poke at his hair—which had, in the humidity of Crestwood, fluffed up quite a bit, making his chest seem particularly voluminous; Trevor was just glad someone else noticed—that Varric returned with ease, following up with a quick back-slapping hug. He gave Evelyn a nod next, greeting her in a way that showed they'd met before, and then turned to face Trevor.

They were rather intense eyes to be on the recieving end of. Very warm, very brown, framed by thick black lashes, surrounded by lines and wrinkles that showed that the grin he wore was one he sported often. They had a piercing kind of quality, though, a burning focus that made Trevor think of a vampire on the prowl—Alucard's eyes were sharp like that.

Black hair, barrel chest, incredibly thick biceps that Trevor had to force himself not to linger on too long. Bladed staff strapped to his back. Armor that gleamed dangerously.

And a smear of blood across his nose. Which… okay. Did he know that was there?

"Is this the otherworlder you told me about, Varric?"

Wonderful.

"That's him," Varric said, "Hawke, meet Trevor Belmont. Hunter, meet Hawke."

"Pleasure," Trevor drawled, shaking the hand Hawke offered. "By the way, you have something on your face. Just so you know."

"We call them beards in Thedas," Hawke replied with a wink—asshole. Then, he drew away, stepping to the side to motion Evelyn into the cave and saying, "My contact with the Wardens should be at the back of the cave."

Evelyn went in first, and the rest of them followed. Trevor didn't much like caves, even if he had met both of his lovers in the ones beneath Gresit. At least the cyclops lair and Alucard's tomb had ambience, though; this place just smelled of mildew and fungus. Still, Trevor could understand that being on the run didn't always allow for the most lavish of hiding places. He was trying to be understanding towards this guy.

Then, someone tried to take a sword to Evelyn's throat.

Naturally, Trevor didn't let that happen. He snapped the Morning Star forward and wrapped its chain around the blade before it could get within a foot of her neck, yanking it away—but not out of the man's hand, which actually spoke rather highly of his skill.

Trevor lunged forward, ready to get in a hit while he still had the man's sword tangled up, but before he could get there, _ice_ of all things crawled up his boots and anchored him to the floor of the cave. He was stuck, but he wasn't about to let that stop him as he tightened his grip on the Morning Star—

"It's just us! I brought the Inquisitor and her friends," Hawke called, waving his hands at them, "And as fun as it would be to watch, you probably shouldn't all kill each other."

Fine. Trevor didn't commence to kill the man, but he did keep his sword firmly in place with the Morning Star's chain, holding the man's eyes with his own glare. Neither of them moved to stand down even as the rest of the party gathered in the stone cavern around them.

At last, Hawke said, "Andraste's tits, someone blink already."

"Tell him to give me back my sword," the man said, voice almost petulant as he glowered at Trevor.

Who much more maturely shot back, "Tell him to give me back my feet."

"I didn't do that!"

"That was me, actually," Hawke admitted. That explains his staff, Trevor supposes. "And—well, yes, I'll get right on that."

Trevor shook the water off his boots—fucking great, now his socks were all soggy, ugh—as Hawke confirmed that this guy, Alistair, was his contact with the Grey Wardens—which, as Evelyn explained to him a while ago, were a weird kind of soldier that fought a special brand of plague zombies called _darkspawn_. This Alistair was clearly someone important, because Evelyn's face absolutely lit up when she heard his name.

"Alistair?" she repeated, eyes huge, "Like, _the_ Alistair?"

"I've really got to change my name," Alistair-Like- _The_ -Alistair muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Yes, I am that Alistair. Yes, I fought with the Hero. Yes, she was incredible."

"Oh," Evelyn breathed, a blush dusting the top of her cheekbones, and the Iron Bull let out a grunt of agreement behind her, actually giving Alistair a once-over. Solas, too, watched on with interest—though not a particularly admiring flavor of it. 

Yeah, Trevor was obviously missing something, but honestly he didn't really care that much. He was still a bit sore about his cold, wet feet.

Thus, Trevor said, "Yes, yay, how exciting. Why are we here again?"

Apparently, because all the Grey Wardens in Orlais were hearing something called a Calling—which was bad, by everyone's reactions—because of that huge asshole named Corypheus—who Hawke killed but also did not kill, great—and now they had to go to some old Tevinter ritual tower to stop it from, er, doing a ritual.

Fantastic. That all sounded suitably dire.

But not dire enough for them to go straight there. Instead, they said goodbye to Alistair and Hawke, who were going to meet them back at Skyhold so they could all travel to the Western Approach together later and continued to help out around Crestwood.

Trevor didn't really fault Evelyn for it, even if the whole ritual tower thing did seem rather pressing. It's not like the could just leave when there was so much unfinished—clearing out a den of wyrms, closing rifts, finding some woman named Judith.

Also, killing a dragon, which thrilled the Iron Bull to no end.

Trevor wasn't exactly sure what the Iron Bull had been shouting at the dragon as they all worked on bringing it down, but he was sure that he didn't want to know—way too excited about it. He was also sure that fighting dragons was a lot easier when there were other people helping. It's a team sport, he supposes.

Between Varric's and Evelyn's sharpshooting, Solas' barriers and magic, the Iron Bull's axe-wielding enthusiasm, and Trevor's own efforts, the dragon died without too much of a fuss. The few injuries that occurred were easily taken care of by either a potion—amazing things, those were—or Solas' healing magic.

It was fun, actually. The camaraderie was easy to fall into. He found himself making snarky comments at Varric and Solas, boasting with the Iron Bull, teasing Evelyn. Before he knew it, he was insisting that he made the killing blow to the dragon, a smirk threatening to tug the corner of his mouth upwards, his chest lighter than it had felt in months.

He was happy, or at least close to it.

It was terrible.

He was an idiot, he knew, but when he realized he'd been talking and joking and nearly smiling with all these people, it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Because—

Sypha. Alucard. Wallachia. Had he forgotten about all that? Had he forgotten that this place—these people—weren't his?

He didn't belong here. He didn't. And the humor, the lightness, the joy he shared with these people all felt like a betrayal to the place he did belong.

He was an idiot, he knew. He could practically hear Sypha smacking his arm and calling him a fool, telling him _you're allowed to be happy_.

But no, he wasn't.

Because he knew that they weren't.

It was different for him, because he knew they were safe. They were home in Wallachia together. The shit there was familiar, known, easily enough handled by people like Sypha and Alucard.

He, on the other hand, disappeared through an unknown portal. They must be panicking.

So what right did he have to be making friends? What right did he have to joke and tease these people when they were probably up all hours searching for him? How could he pretend like everything was fine when they were hurting and it was his fault?

It wasn't fair. God, he hated this. He _hated_ this.

It wasn't just Sypha and Alucard worrying about him, either. Trevor knew that with the realization, his good mood flicked off like extinguishing a candle—and he'd been seeing the looks that the others had been sending him, the whispered conversations as he suddenly drew away and distanced himself.

Why did he do this? He hurt everyone he got close to. He knew he was acting hot and cold, bouncing from extremes, but he couldn't help it. One moment he was having fun, and the next he was wallowing in despair. They must have been exhausted of dealing with him—God knew Trevor was.

But they—they didn't act like it.

They were kind. Kinder than Trevor deserved.

And Solas did not ask him questions about Wallachia or Earth or the people he left behind, instead telling him more of his dumb Fade stories in that reverent, soothing voice. And Varric told him about Hawke, filling Trevor in on all his feats and the logistics behind being the so-called Champion of Kirkwall. And the Iron Bull continued to prod him about dragons, about fighting, about anything really, and he didn't seem deterred when his enthusiasm wasn't returned.

And Evelyn—

She came up to him one night as he sat at the edge of camp, and she didn't say anything. She just sat down next to him on the log, so close that their thighs were touching, and stared out at the darkening landscape of Crestwood with him.

After a few minutes, she reached out and took his hand. He let her.

A few more minutes, and he took a shuddering breath in and released it on a shaky exhale. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

A bit longer, and she drew her hand away only long enough to pull him into a hug that Trevor couldn't resist. And he hugged her back. And he buried his face into her wild mane of hair.

And he tried not to feel guilty for how good it all felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: lets trevor feel one (1) positive emotion  
> me: immediately uses that positive emotion to make him feel guilty and even worse than before
> 
> some other things:  
> 1) I forgot that solas was in the fucking group so I had to go back and stick him in  
> 2) I may have projected my deep attraction to Hawke onto trevor a bit  
> 3) oops


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes. been a lil bit, huh? sorry! enjoy some content

The first thing Trevor did upon returning to Skyhold was sleep. Evelyn had a dozen or so people dragging her off to meetings as soon as she stepped foot in the gates, but luckily, Trevor was nowhere near so important, so he led his horse to the stablehands, gave her one last fond pat, and retreated back to his room to hibernate for a week.

Or, at least, that was the plan. He only managed to make it a few days, emerging from his room only for food and bathroom breaks, until someone came knocking at his door.

And by knocking, naturally he meant _nearly breaking down his damned door._

"Fuck off," Trevor groaned, burying his face in his pillow and trying to ignore the way the pounding on the door shook his entire bed frame.

"Come on, Belmont! Victory drinks!"

Shit, Trevor hadn't thought the Iron Bull was serious about that. Or, at least, he figured he'd have given up after Trevor didn't show up at the tavern after a couple of days.

But here he was. Lovely.

Trevor let out a final, muffled moan and rolled out of bed, grabbing the mostly-clean shirt he left laying on the ground and wrestling it on with one hand as he used the other to swing open the door.

The Iron Bull didn't even flinch at the glare Trevor leveled at him. "Let's go. The guys want to hear your side of the battle; they don't believe me when I say I got the last hit on that thing."

"That's because you didn't," Trevor grumbled, but still shucked on his boots and pulled the door closed behind him as he followed the Iron Bull away.

The Herald’s Rest was crowded when they got there. It was already late in the day when the Iron Bull had dragged him from bed, and people were well into their evening routines. The Iron Bull waded right into the crowd and started heading towards the group of tables near the back of the tavern, the ones surrounded by a group consisting of the Chargers and, surprisingly, Evelyn, who smiled and gave him a small wave when she saw him.

The Iron Bull pushed him into the chair next to Evelyn and then dropped into the other available spot, immediately scooping up a tankard of something that burnt Trevor’s nose from across the table and taking a deep drink from it.

“Woo!” He shook his head, eyes and smile gleaming, and Dalish on his left let out a squawk as she ducked out of the way of his horns. “That’ll put some chest on your chest!”

“What is that?” Evelyn said, wrinkling her nose and eying the Iron Bull’s tankard much like one might a rotting animal carcass.

“Maraas-lok,” the Iron Bull grinned, pushing the tankard towards them.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means drink!”

“Fair enough,” Trevor said, pulling the glass closer. Evelyn let out a squeak as the _maraas-lok_ sloshed over the side of the tankard, sending another dizzying wave of fumes into their faces, but Trevor ignored that as he braced himself and took a gulp.

 _Fuck_ —that burnt all the way down. He coughed a few times, rubbing his chest as he dropped the tankard back to the table, and the crowd around him erupted into cheers and laughter. His head already was a little light as he was slapped on the back by a few reaching hands.

“I know, right?” The Iron Bull said, almost gleeful. Then, he turned his eye onto Evelyn, who stared at Trevor as if waiting to see if he’d keel over. Which he wouldn’t. Just needed a minute to, er, catch his breath. “Your turn, Boss. To killing a high dragon like warriors of legend!”

“I, um—I don’t know,” Evelyn said. She sniffed, then grimaced. “That may be a little strong for me.”

“Aw, c’mon, Inquisitor! Cut loose!” That came from Rocky over at the end of the table, and it was followed by the rest of the table quickly joining in the jeers.

Evelyn gnawed on her bottom lip, not quite cringing under all the chanting, and Trevor sighed at himself internally.

 _Might as fucking well_.

He reached out and took the tankard before Evelyn could give in, holding his breath as he lifted it and swallowed the last few gulps down as fast as he possibly could. He slammed the empty glass back down harder than he intended to the Charger’s roaring their approval, and he swallowed a few times as his throat and chest burnt like he’d just drank acid, pitching sideways a bit as the tavern spun.

Before he could tumble over, though, Evelyn grabbed him and yanked him back up, eyes wide as she said, “Trevor!”

He blinked—which, suddenly, took a lot more effort than before. “Sh- _it_.”

“Now that’s how we celebrate!” The Iron Bull declared, blinking—winking?—meaningfully at Trevor, before he leaned back to call over to Cabot, “Ales all around!”

That sent another wave of celebration around the table as a bustle of glasses nearly overflowing with ale began to circulate, just as much ending up spilling onto people’s shirts as they jostled and laughed as was actually drunk.

Evelyn looked much more comfortable holding a tankard of ale rather than whatever the _fuck_ the Iron Bull was trying to make them drink, and she sipped at it, smiling and grabbing onto Trevor’s shirt every time he began to tilt sideways as the Iron Bull began to wax poetic about the high dragon they’d slain on their last outing.

Trevor was only sort of following the story. He was much more content to slump back in his chair, Evelyn’s hand warm on his shoulder, and let the voices sort of wash over him in a loud, spinning haze. Every once in a while his name would be called, and he’d sit up to disagree with whatever the Iron Bull claimed regardless of what it was, and then he’d sink back down into his drunkenness.

Some time later, he was considering rousing him self up enough to go take a piss outside when Krem asked, “What else happened out there, Chief?”

“Oh, you know—rifts, demons, undead, fucking mayor killing a village,” the Iron Bull growled, and his rough words involuntarily pulled Trevor from his musings as his heart began to beat a bit harder at the reminder. “Least we caught that bastard.”

That was news. “Huh?”

Evelyn turned to him, squeezing his shoulder. “Leliana’s people brought him in a few days after we returned; you were still resting. He’s already been judged for his crimes.”

Trevor managed to sit up a bit more. “’S he dead yet?”

“Ah, well,” Evelyn took a deep breath, “Actually, I thought exile would be a more prudent punishment.”

“What?” Trevor jerked out of her grip, tilting backwards into the person sitting on his other side, who gave him a rough shove back. “You let ‘im go?”

“No!” Evelyn replied. “He’s been banished from ever stepping foot in this country again—”

“He killed them in their own homes," Trevor snapped. "They—They did nothing wrong, and h-he killed them all. Entire fucking families.”

"He was scared, Trevor. He thought it was his only option.”

"Being scared doesn’t—it doesn’t justify killing innocent people," he shot back.

“He clearly regrets it.”

Trevor doubted that. People like the mayor didn’t change. He might claim for all the world that he regretted it, but the next time the going got tough he would kill more innocent people to save his own skin, because he thought there was no other option, because he was scared. Trevor’s heart roared in his ears, and his skin suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.

He stood, and the ground was suddenly the wall. Several people grabbed him to hold him up at once, and he shook them all off, stumbling away from the table as the room spun wildly around him. He could hear the Iron Bull’s deep voice calling his name, telling him to slow down—he heard the others shooting confused questions his way—and he heard Evelyn calling for him to wait, but he didn’t.

He pushed his way out of the tavern, each step sending him swaying, and he got about halfway across the courtyard before Evelyn came scrambling up from behind him, her face twisted in concern as she stopped in front of him, hands up and entreating him to stop.

“What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?”

He shoved his face into his hands, groaning, and felt his hands get wet. This fucking—why couldn’t it all just stop? Why couldn’t people stop doing shit like this? _Why did shit like this always happen when he was drunk?_

Evelyn said his name. She said it again. The third time, he looked up, and she said it once more, but softer.

Around the tightness in his throat, Trevor said, “They don’t ever stop. They just—they don’t ever stop.”

“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked. “Trevor, he won’t do it again; he was just scared—”

“You know who was scared? The people who drowned in that fucking village.” Trevor snapped, and Evelyn flinched. “My fucking family, Evelyn—that’s who was fucking scared when some assholes came and locked them in their house and set it on fire because they thought it was their only fucking option. And you fucking let them go _._ ”

He was breathing hard at the end of that, and his head was swimming. Evelyn’s face was blurring in front of him, but he could make out her sniffling softly. Her tears hit him like a splash of cold water—he blinked, felt something hot and wet roll down his own cheeks, and then he stumbled forward, hand reaching.

“I—fuck, Evelyn, I didn’t—”

“Come on.” She wiped at her face and grabbed his arm. “You’re drunk.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she said.

He followed her as she pulled him, shame and drink and emotion making him meek. He didn’t look at his surroundings, just kept staring at the side of her face, still shiny with tears, and he felt his whole stomach roiling with guilt.

Trevor Belmont fucked up once again. What a surprise. He was the kind of bastard to take Evelyn’s generosity and throw it in her face over and over, apparently. He was scum—if Alucard and Sypha were here, they’d—

They’d fucking hate him. It’d be like when they first met; they’d think he was nothing more than some angry drunken asshole wandering around feeling sorry for himself.

And they’d be right. That’s all he’d been when they found him the first time, and that’s all he’s been since landing in Thedas.

Evelyn was hushing him lightly as they walked; he’d been muttering. She squeezed his arm, comforting, and Trevor sniffed. She squeezed his arm again.

Suddenly they were in a big room, not Trevor’s. There was a window, and a desk, and a huge bed that Evelyn was leading him towards.

He tried to dig in his heels, shaking his head. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“Just to sleep,” she told him. He hesitated only another moment before allowing her to guide him forward and sit him on the edge of the bed.

He watched, feeling strangely apart from his own body as she crouched down and wrestled off his boots. She helped him swing his legs up onto the bed and pushed him into a laying position, putting his head on a pillow that was definitely fluffier than the one he got. He started to butcher a protest, but she quieted him with a hand on his cheek.

“Sleep it off, Trevor,” she told him. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He managed to nod. His chest felt like it was seizing, and he let out a quiet sob. Evelyn used her thumb to wipe at the tears rolling down the side of his face.

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plz validate me im trying so hard


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big dialogue chapter, lol. But hey! Communication!

He woke up with a mouthful of cotton and a pickax in his head. Trevor let out a groan, but before he could even open his eyes, there was a voice saying, “here” and a glass being pressed into his hand.

A painful peek showed it was a vial of something red and viscous, and, hoping for the best, Trevor went ahead and sat up just enough to knock it back. It tasted weirdly herbal and sort of minty, and within moments his headache abated enough for him to be capable of rational thoughts.

The first of which was _where the fuck am I?_ followed quickly by an intelligent _oh, it’s Evelyn_ , then _shit, did I sleep with Evelyn?_

As if reading his mind, Evelyn said, “We didn’t do anything.”

“Oh,” Trevor’s shoulders lost some of their tension, “Okay, then.”

She watched him carefully, eyebrows drawn together, and then asked, “How do you feel?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Less like a small, furry rodent crawled into my mouth and started burrowing in my skull.”

Evelyn cracked a small smile. “The Iron Bull had some Qunari alcohol that he was kind enough to share, and you saved me from having to drink any. I think I’ll ask him to keep his special stash to himself from now on.”

“Ah,” Trevor said. Yes, he remembered something like that vaguely. He also had some blurry recollections of… an argument? Oh, that bastard mayor—Evelyn’s decision—his reaction— _oh, damn_ —

“So, you remember?” Evelyn’s smile had fallen away, and she was again looking at him under furrowed eyebrows from her chair at his—rather, her bedside. At his nod, she leaned back. “Then I believe we need to have a talk.”

He couldn’t argue with that, as much as the idea of it filled him with dread. He’s been behaving badly—not coping. And part of him didn’t care, part of him just wanted to drink until he was in a numb, alcoholic fog that kept all the pain and fear away, to stay angry instead of dealing with anything, but the rest of him remembered the tears on Evelyn’s face last night.

She didn’t deserve that. She’d shown him kindness, given him a purpose, a place to stay. Without her help, he’d have ended up dead in a ditch days after arriving in Thedas. She took his shit each time he threw it at her, forgiving him even without him ever giving her an apology, dealing with his drunkenness and instability with endless grace. She’d let him stay with her Inquisition without him doing anything to help, just sitting on his ass all day, getting drunk and snapping at people.

He knew Alucard and Sypha would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself. Guilt was curled up around his ribcage like a serpent, constricting tighter each passing second as Evelyn watched him with those tired, patient eyes.

He couldn’t argue. He nodded again.

“First,” Evelyn began, and even her quiet voice rang out against the silence of her spacious bedroom, “I would like to apologize.”

Trevor stiffened. He began to protest, but Evelyn held up a hand, and he fell quiet again as she said, “Just let me say this, okay?

“I would like to apologize. This whole situation… I can't help but feel responsible for it. I should have stopped Alexius from opening a second portal. I should have been able to control the mark, or—done something. This shouldn't have happened, and you—despite this not being your world, despite us locking you up for days and interrogating you, you still helped us at Haven. You fought a dragon for us—twice. And you helped at Crestwood, and—I know you didn't have much choice in joining the Inquisition, but you helped anyway.”

“You didn’t do this, Evelyn,” Trevor said. He felt very small in the middle of her large bed.

She waved her hand. “I know, I know—Alexius and Corypheus and probably a dozen other people are at fault, but I—I could have done something. But I didn’t, and you’re here, and—I’m just so sorry, Trevor. You don’t deserve this.”

Words weren’t coming to him just then. They remained firmly locked in his throat, and all he could do was wait for Evelyn to continue. Which she did, after a heavy sigh.

“But this… self-destruction needs to stop. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying. But you aren’t letting me, and I don’t know what to do. I’m not asking that you stop being sad, or angry, or—anything. I just want you to talk to me. Or if not me, Bull. Or Varric. Even Solas—anyone would be willing to listen. Just—please, stop closing yourself off every time it hurts.”

Her compassion felt like wool on his skin—itchy, uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve it. But here she was, holding out her hand again after he slapped it away. He didn’t want to take it—didn’t think he was worthy of it, really—but. This is what she asked. He’d do nothing but hurt her more if he continued to hide away under his shell of alcohol and ill temper.

He met her liquid brown eyes with his own. “Alright.”

Evelyn leaned forward. “Really?”

“Yeah, and I’m,” he swallowed, working the words around the lump in his throat as he tried to force himself to keep going, “I’m sorry. For getting angry with you about—about the mayor.”

“It’s fine,” she said at once, but then she paused, biting at her bottom lip. “What did you mean about your family?”

He saw the question coming, but he couldn’t hold back his flinch all the same. His hands tightened in the blanket pooled around his waist, and he let out a breath that shuddered all the way through.

This was what she asked for. This was the first step. He’s faced down countless vampires and demons; he punched Dracula himself in the face. He could talk about his family. He’s done it before, with Sypha and Alucard. He could do it again.

“The Belmont Clan is sworn to destroy creatures of the night and protect the land from darkness. Vampires, demons, you know,” Trevor started, then sighed. “But the idiots we were protecting thought my family was involved with the monsters and black magic, despite all we did. And the church excommunicated them. And that was all the permission the people needed to go and—”

The words got caught in the back of his throat, and his hands curled into fists, eyes squeezing shut. He had to take another breath before he could continue, voice low and hoarse, “They locked them all in the house—my sisters, my parents, even the servants. They blocked all the doors and windows, and they set it on fire.”

Evelyn’s eyes were wide and wet, watching him from the chair as he spoke. When he stopped, she crossed over to him, breathing out a fragile, “Trevor.”

He let her take his wrist, trembling at the contact.

“They were screaming,” he said, hollow. “They were pounding on the doors, begging to be let out. And I—I had been playing in the trees. All I could do was watch them burn.”

“How old were you?” She sat herself on the edge of the bed, so that their knees touched through the covers.

“Twelve.”

The face Evelyn made then was much like the one Sypha made when she found out—all tender and sympathetic.

“That’s—” Evelyn cut herself off with a shudder. She squeezed his wrist. “Thank you for telling me. I understand why you were upset with me. I am so sorry you had to go through that.”

Trevor nodded, staring down at his lap. They sat quietly for some time, listening to the birdsong and subdued noise of work filtering in through the open balcony, until Evelyn called his name.

When he looked up at her, her eyes were gleaming. “Want to steal some of Josephine’s chocolate for breakfast?”

Trevor huffed a laugh, surprised. Evelyn’s face split into a grin.

“Alright,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Project myself and my desire to comfort trevor onto Evelyn? nahhhhh
> 
> thank yall for the comments!!! i big appreciate them!!!


End file.
